


The Better Men

by TurtleTotem



Series: The Better Men [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I do believe the two of you were in the same year as boys, were you not?" Headmaster Shaw said. "Charles is the most competent deputy any headmaster could ask for, Erik, and he's been doing this for years…" He trailed off, as if finally noticing something odd in the way his Potions and Divination masters were staring at each other.</i>
</p><p>  <i>"Of course," Charles said quickly, his voice only a little hoarse, and stuck out his hand. "Welcome back to Hogwarts, Erik."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt regarding this fanart: http://erikandcharles.tumblr.com/post/10727170338/slytherin-house-professor-erik-lehnsherr
> 
> Also available on [deviantArt](http://turtletotem.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d4co65b) and [xmen-firstkink.](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/3278.html?thread=4899278#t4899278)
> 
> Ratings note for the interested: The majority of this fic is G, but there is some passionate snogging in Ch. 20, and... more detailed activity Ch. 23.

"--students will be arriving any moment and we've barely seen our _dear headmaster_ in a bloody week, we still don't have a Potions master -- Winky, pull that one up a bit on the left, thank you..." Charles wiped sweat from his forehead, giving the Ravenclaw common room one last look-over. He'd been staring at blue and bronze banners, dangling eagles and glimmering stars for so long now, he hardly knew whether the overall effect was celebratory or simply cluttered. It would have to do. "All right, chaps, good enough. Thanks for the assistance."

The house-elves scattered to the hundred-odd other duties Charles knew had to be waiting for them, and Charles turned to the door. _Should have been in the Great Hall five minutes past..._ His duties as Head of Ravenclaw House were plentiful, but little enough compared to his responsibilities as Deputy Headmaster, especially under a headmaster like Sebastian Shaw, whose preference, apparently, was to keep to his tower for days at a time and leave all the _real_ work to his deputy. Charles wondered if he would even show up to greet the students.

He was considerably startled, then, to find the headmaster waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs when he exited Ravenclaw Tower.

"Ah, here he is. Professor Xavier, I'm told the students will be arriving momentarily, but we've just enough time to introduce you to the new Potions master. If introductions are even necessary -- I do believe the two of you were in the same year as boys, were you not?"

And the entire world stopped dead, cold dizzy breathless, as Charles's eyes focused on the man standing next to Shaw.

Erik Lehnsherr.

Only the wall at his back kept Charles upright. He was peripherally aware that Shaw was still speaking, but his head was buzzing to loud to hear. _Erik._

The last decade had been kind to Erik; already a handsome, well-built young man at graduation _(especially next to a scrawny, awkward thing like Charles)_ , he now had a breadth and maturity that sat well on him. Charles couldn't help feeling he himself had only grown scrawnier and more awkward in the same amount of time. Erik's robes were sharp and new, his hair combed back perfect and smooth. Almost unconsciously, Charles tugged his robe straight, brushed his hair out of his face. Erik's eyes, until now carefully blank in a rigidly neutral face, flickered with something like amusement or pain.

"--first year teaching, of course, so I expect he'll need a certain amount of assistance now and then," Shaw was saying. "Charles is the most competent deputy any headmaster could ask for, Erik, and he's been doing this for years. Don't hesitate to go to him for anything you need, should I be unavailable..." He trailed off, as if finally noticing something odd in the way his Potions and Divinations masters were staring at each other.

"Of course," Charles said quickly, his voice only a little hoarse, and stuck out his hand. "Welcome back to Hogwarts, Erik."

Erik swallowed, shook his hand as briefly as manners permitted. His touch was like fire on Charles's skin.

"Well, we should move along, then, if we're going to be in place to greet the children!" Shaw turned and led the way down the corridor.

Erik and Charles lagged a step behind.

"I'm sorry," Erik murmured, so softly that even Charles could not have made out the words if he hadn't known Erik's voice better than his own. "I didn't mean to ambush you like this. I only agreed to the position yesterday."

"I'm sure you'll do splendidly. You were always a great hand at Potions." His voice sounded artificial, brittle, even to his own ears.

"Charles--"

"Are you to be Head of Slytherin House, as well, since Headmaster Shaw's vacated the position?"

"I -- yes."

"I should have expected Shaw'd want you, of course, you always were his star student, might even say his protégé. Stepping right into his shoes, then."

"Charles, perhaps later, after the feast, we could talk..."

Charles laughed. "Oh, there'll be no talking tonight, my friend. It'll take us the bulk of the night to get the children bedded down, overstimulated as they'll be, and by then I promise you'll want nothing more than your own bed. You've no idea what you're in for." _My friend_ , he'd called him _my friend_ , hadn't he, it had just slipped right out. Well, and he called most everyone that, didn't he, and always had, but it had always meant something more when he said it to Erik--

 _Focus, Xavier!_ Oh, it was like something out of a nightmare that _Erik_ was here, _here, now_ , and with no time to calm his mind before--

Students, yes, pouring into the Great Hall just as the three of them arrived, lovely familiar faces grinning at him out of the crowd, the nervous excited _un_ familiar faces, and how many of them might be sorted into Ravenclaw? Charles tried to force his attention onto them, and away from the blazing torch that was Erik's presence in his peripheral vision.

He managed to maintain something like a focused presence during the speech and the Sorting, immediately memorizing the names and granting warm, welcoming smiles to his thirty-two new Ravenclaws. The rest of the Feast, however, quickly fell into a blur. Despite his efforts to the contrary, Charles had ended up seated next to Erik at the table. The effort of _not-looking not-touching not-saying_ was shattering. The plate before him kept disappearing behind a swirl of remembered images, words, touches--

Gradually he became aware that Raven, across the table from him, was staring at Erik with blatant shock and outrage. He managed to catch her eye, shake his head, mouth the words _I'll explain later_. As if this were something _he_ had to account for -- but Raven contented herself with a glare and a mouthed _You'd better._ Hopefully that would be enough to get them out of the hall without a scene.

Or would have been, if--

"Charles," Erik murmured, much too close, and Charles shot to his feet.

But only a moment before the other teachers did the same, and the students, too, their plates disappearing from the tables. Time to get everyone settled into their rooms.

Charles gathered his Ravenclaws and swept them out of the room without looking back.

\---

Charles, with his compromised focus, had to lean on his prefects rather more heavily than usual in getting the children settled for the night. Fortunately, both Dominique Weasley and Lysander Scamander were old hands at wrangling their classmates, leaving Charles free to focus on the first years, some of whom were in tears of exhaustion or homesickness by the time they had their bed assignments worked out.

Charles knew he was unusually _involved_ , for a Head of House; most seemed to feel it was better to let the kids sort themselves out. Heaven knew, the idea of Professor Logan tucking in the Gryffindors was more unsettling than comforting, and his kids seemed to turn out all right; in fact they tended to follow him about like half-feral, fiercely-loyal puppies. But Charles couldn't help it; the children _needed_ him, and if that meant a few bracing words, a pat on the shoulder, even a hug or two before saying goodnight, he didn't care a bit if Logan called him "Deputy Den Mother" behind his back.

He tried not to wonder how Erik was getting on with the Slytherins. He knew several in that lot who would jump on any weakness or uncertainty like piranhas _(they would certainly eat me alive,_ he admitted silently), and though weakness and uncertainty were not generally on Erik's long and wide-ranging list of flaws, he was surely feeling a bit out of his depth tonight.

Charles did not hope they reduced Erik to tears his first night. He was a better man than that.

He didn't realize he'd been leaning motionless against the common room wall for several minutes until Dominique cleared her throat at his elbow. "You can go on to bed, Professor," she said diffidently. "Sandy and I have got things under control here."

The amount of noise still radiating from the older students' rooms rather belied this statement, but one glance at Dominique's clear, alert eyes and (as always) unruffled appearance told him she was better suited to dealing with it than he was.

"Don't mind if I do, then," he muttered, and ruffled her straight, veela-blonde hair. "Good night, 'Minique."

She wrinkled her nose at him, re-ordering her hair. "Goodnight, Professor X."

He stumbled back to his room, collapsed on the bed, and began counting the seconds until Raven opened the door. Without knocking.

One minute twelve seconds.

"So _he's_ the new Potions master," Raven said.

Charles pulled himself upright and reached for a quill and a lesson plan that absolutely did not _need_ any more last-minute tweaking. "Yes, he is. And I expect you to be perfectly civil to him."

Raven's face transformed into his own in the blink of an eye; dear goodness but it was a pain sometimes, having a Metamorphmagus for a sister. "Per-fect-ly civ-il," she sing-songed in his voice, complete with accent. Even after seventeen years in England, her own natural accent remained stubbornly American, just as Erik's would always carry traces of Germany.

 _\--like his way of saying_ maus _instead of mouse, you could hear the difference, it was definitely_ maus _when he brushed the hair out of Charles's eyes and kissed his forehead--_

Charles's quill cracked in his hand.

"Give me one reason to be civil to that superior Slytherin son of a snake," Raven was saying, face back to normal, and Charles did not know how much longer he could bear to have her in the room.

"For pete's sake, Raven, you act like _he_ left _me_."

"He _did_ , Charles! _He's_ the one who--"

"Oh, please, Raven, I don't want to talk about it. I want to go to bed. I _need_ to go to bed, and so do you. Tomorrow's going to be bedlam, and considering how chaotic your Transfigurations classes tend to be already..."

Raven sighed, and crossed the room to hug him. "You know, you might not be my 'real' brother, but by golly you're the best family I ever had. And I'm not going to sit by and watch that bastard break your heart again."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to let me get some rest before I have to look at him again in the morning."

"All right, all right." She kissed his cheek. "Sleep well."

The door closed behind her, and Charles buried his face in his pillow, wondering if he would sleep at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the first day of the term does not go particularly well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Because of my faulty research, each House has only two prefects in this universe. This is clearly a ridiculously insufficient number, but because fixing it would be difficult and complicated and the number of prefects isn't actually plot-relevant, I'm making no attempt to fix it right now. Maybe once the story is done. Apologies for the mistake.

Stepping into the Slytherin common room was like diving face-first into his adolescence. Erik stopped in the doorway, as if the watery green light and damp, cold, stoney smell were a wall he could not walk through. Only for a moment -- then the press of students behind him forced him inside.

Was this what it felt like to come home, this surreal recognition of things long-forgotten, this aching gasping full-body flashback to the best and worst days of his life? Mostly worst, frankly, in here -- the good times had largely happened aboveground, in the classrooms, in the corridors, on the Quidditch pitch... in the lake... outside the shops of Hogsmeade...

_\--biting cold air full of candlelight and snatches of song, snow in his hair but warmth on his hands and lips--_

He shook it off -- introspection could take place later, if it had to take place at all -- and turned his attention to the students, who were swirling around the room in various states of hyperactivity and noise. Two girls were shouting insults at each other in one corner, three boys were pounding a fourth in another, several more were chasing each other across the furniture and shooting sparks from their wands, while a first-year girl wept on the floor with a bloody knee.

For about five seconds, Erik wanted nothing more than to run from this room and all the way back to the safe, boring administrative position in London that Shaw had convinced him to give up. What was he doing here? Had he lost his _entire mind?_

Then he caught sight of the knot of students on his left, sixth- and seventh-years at a guess, watching him with calm, cold calculation. Waiting for him to fold, crumple, throw himself -- knowingly or not -- into their power. Waiting for blood in the water.

He met their eyes unflinchingly, and felt his face open in a smile of what had been called frightening width and toothiness. More than one of the students visibly recoiled.

_You want blood in the water, lads? You're playing with the big sharks now._

A twitch of his wand at his side activated a long-memorized voice-amplification spell, and the stone walls rang with Erik's barked, "SILENCE!"

Two hundred and fifty-odd faces turned toward him, mouths and eyes open wide.

"Prefects," Erik snapped. "Front and center."

A young man and woman -- neither of them, thankfully, from the knot of troublemakers -- detached themselves from the herd and stood before him, admirably straight and calm despite the nervous flickers in their eyes.

"Names."

"Barry Bulstrode, sir," said the appropriately bull-like boy. Considering that Shaw had chosen him as prefect, Erik felt he could reasonably assume the boy was more intelligent than he looked.

"Clara Parc-Zabini, sir," said girl, a tall, bespectacled, brittle-looking creature with a long, tight braid of brown hair. Her robes were possibly the neatest, cleanest, sharpest-creased articles of clothing he had ever seen.

Erik held their eyes another cool, silent moment, then nodded briskly. "Parc-Zabini, is there still a first aid kit under the Greengrass shield?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fetch it and see to the injuries of that girl and boy." He pointed to the tear-streaked first-year and the pounded boy. The prefect moved immediately to the shield, to his approval. "Bulstrode, round up the first years and see them to their rooms." He raised his voice again. "All other students, proceed immediately to your beds, without unnecessary noise or motion of any kind. And Bulstrode," he caught the boy's arm, lowering his voice, "in the morning, I want the names of the three boys who felt it necessary to gang up on another student in the middle of the common room on the first night of the term."

"Yes sir, Professor Lehnsherr."

Erik stood with his hands clasped behind his back as the common room cleared. The knot of troublemakers -- and how bloody familiar they all looked, not _just_ because he'd likely gotten bruises at the hands of their close relations -- moved off slowly, sullen disappointment in their eyes, but move they did.

Soon the only children in the room were Parc-Zabini and the two injured. He stood close by while Parc-Zabini bandaged the bloody knee, disinfected the boy's split lip, put an ice pack to his eye, her movements as efficient and meticulous as he'd suspected they'd be.

"Thank you, Parc-Zabini," he said when she was done and putting away the kit. "Give the rooms a sweep for any trouble, then go to bed. Escort the girl. You, boy, see the infirmary at some point tomorrow, just in case."

"Yes sir, Professor Lehnsherr," they chorused, and he smiled tightly to himself. Shaw had, after all, been their Head of House last year -- they couldn't be _too_ badly trained.

Then he was alone in the room, and able to sink down onto an armchair before his trembling knees gave out.

The Slytherin prefects, during Erik's own years here, had been driven by a love of power concealed as a love of order, and he imagined there was a great deal of their behavior that Professor Shaw never learned of. Erik would not allow that to happen, not under _his_ nose. While he was here, the Slytherin common room would be a place where its students could feel safe. _All_ of them, not just the smart ones or the popular ones or the ones that spoke good English.

Great Merlin but it all felt so close right now, those first miserable days at Hogwarts -- first miserable year and a half, really, when he was angry and scared and socially inept, scooped up from that wretched German orphanage by Professor Shaw and dropped here to sink or swim--

_\--freezing December lake water in his nose and eyes and mouth, "Let go, Erik, you've got to let it go!"--_

_\--five years later at the train station, "Let me go, Erik" and he'd known even then that he was eight kinds of a fool to actually do it but there was his hand opening--_

A wet, gasping sound from across the room brought Erik out of his reverie. "Who's there?" he snapped.

The sound -- a sniffle, he realized with impatience and dread -- sounded again, and he realized it was coming from the stairway just beyond the half-open door to the common room.

Erik crossed the room in three angry strides and snatched the door open. A fair-haired boy sat shivering on the steps, pale face blotchy with tears. At the sight of Erik he gulped and straightened, blinking frantically and wiping his face.

"Are you hurt, boy?" Erik demanded.

"No, sir."

"Then _what_ are you snivelling about? And _why_ are you not in your bed?"

The boy gulped again, seemed to be attempting speech, but only got more tears.

 _Back to London. First thing in the morning,_ Erik vowed, knowing it was a lie. He sat down on the step next to the boy and waited for him to calm himself.

"You done?" he asked dryly when the sobs tapered off again.

The boy wiped his eyes, blushing scarlet, and nodded.

"Tell me your name and what in the world is the matter with you."

"Scorpius Malfoy, sir," ah, of course, he looked every bit a Malfoy, and how _very_ odd to see a Malfoy in tears, "and I'm very sorry, sir, there's nothing at all the matter with me. I'll just go on to bed, sir, I'm sorry to have bothered you." He was sitting straight and proud now, face rigid, and Erik couldn't help being impressed -- even a little charmed -- by his valiant attempt at manners and dignity.

He realized abruptly what was missing from the boy's uniform, the reason he was shivering so badly. "Where's your scarf, Malfoy?"

Malfoy's lip began to tremble again. "I've looked all up and down the hallways for it, sir -- tried to find my way back to the Great Hall, thinking maybe I left it during the Feast, but I c-couldn't find my way and now I think on it I think I may have left it on the t-train. Sir." He swallowed, face crumpling. "It was a gift from my father."

"Calm down, boy, I'm sure it'll turn up," Erik said before the bloody waterworks could start up again. "We'll ask after it in the morning. I'm sure you're not the first idiot to leave something important on the train. There'll be a lost-and-found or some such."

"You think so?" The boy looked so stupidly _hopeful_ it made Erik tired.

"Well, even if so, it may take several days to get it sent over, and you'll need your scarf in this icebox of a dungeon, especially when you're not used to it," Erik muttered. He unwound the length of green-and-silver from around his own neck and dropped it across Malfoy's shoulders. "I do expect that back."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Malfoy said, wide-eyed, immediately wrapping it tight around him.

"Now get to your bed. I imagine you'll need this, lights-out was several minutes back." He pulled a glow-ball from his pocket, pinched to wake it to a soft green glow. "Keep it, I have more. Knew I'd need them in this bloody maze of a building."

"Thank you," Malfoy repeated.

"Go on, then. And Malfoy?"

"Sir?"

"You won't get far around here if you sit in corners and snivel. I expect better composure from you in the future." He meant his voice to sound stern, but it came out even harder than he intended.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." The boy shot him a bright, surprising smile, and disappeared up the stairs in the faint light of the glow-ball.

Erik got to his feet and set off for his own rooms, groaning at the thought that he still had a _lesson plan_ to prepare for tomorrow.

He tried not to think about how much better Charles would have handled that, or wonder, for the five hundredth time today, what in the world he was doing here.

\---

"Divination," Charles said, pitching his voice to carry to every corner of the classroom, "is the art of predicting the future. You see before you the traditional tools of the trade." He spread his hands over the objects arrayed on his desk. "Tea leaves. Crystal balls. Tarot cards. Astrology charts. You will learn how to use all of these. Unfortunately, unless you are one of those blessed -- or cursed -- to have their magic manifest as the Sight, they will probably be entirely useless to you."

He gave the room a broad smile, enjoying the ripple of resentment and even outrage making its way through the room. This was his fourth year teaching Divination, and word was beginning to spread that his classes were _different_ ; some students were therefore watching him calmly, waiting for the punchline -- but there were also still plenty anticipating a long term of no-win situations.

"Fortunately," he continued, drawing the students' attention back to him, "in my class you will not at any point be tested on your ability to see the future in the bottom of a tea-cup. Were that the case, only one student would have passed this class in the last three years. You will learn traditional Divination methods because their efficacy is sometimes the first sign of burgeoning Sight, and because they may be worthwhile to you as tools for focusing your efforts -- we'll go over all that. But they are not what this class will be about." With a sweep of his wand, the motley items vanished from the desktop. "Unless you have the Sight, my dear witches and wizards, predicting the future is not about tuning into the whispering voices of the universe. It is about learning to listen to your own mind and to the world around you. It is about honing your _intuition_ , a form of magic that even Muggles have been known to develop quite keenly. Your magic will make yours more reliable, if and _only_ if you train it properly. If you pay attention, gather the proper information and let it take shape in your mind -- you can see the pattern of events transpiring all around you. You can understand _and predict_ the next step in the dance."

He flicked his wand, and parchments marked _Syllabus_ appeared in the air above each desk, floating down into students' hands.

"Observational skills." He made his voice whip-like, jabbing each section of the syllabus with his wand as he read it out. "Meditation. Pattern recognition and probability. Symbology and the interpretation of dreams. Body language and microexpressions. _Critical thinking._ You will learn to see yourself and the world and people around you _accurately_ , and use the truths of today to stack the odds for tomorrow."

He paused, letting some of the more boggled-looking students catch their breath.

"Next class," he said, "we will cover the basics of tea leaves and tarot. I will expect you to have read chapters three and four of Parvati Patil's _Divination Tools & Rituals: A Practical Guide_. I also expect each of you to immediately begin keeping a dream journal. You will find very useful advice on how to go about that in the Dream Interpretation chapter of that same textbook. If you find you cannot remem... ber..." Charles's tongue suddenly turned to lead in his mouth.

Erik was standing at the back of his classroom, arms folded, with an expression of intense interest. It faded into annoyed chagrin at the realization that Charles was staring at him. That, in fact, most of the class was now staring at him.

"If you can't remember your dreams, just bloody make something up," Charles said. "Class dismissed."

The students streamed out of the room eagerly, and Charles was left to fold away his syllabus, flick his wand to unvanish his teapot, crystal ball and tarot cards, and otherwise look useless and fidgety while Erik approached the desk. "Professor Lehnsherr," he said with a tight nod.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your class," he said. "I had a planning period and thought you might, as well. I thought it might be a good time to talk."

"I really don't imagine we have much to talk about, Erik."

Erik set his jaw, a muscle twitching near the joint, and Charles strangled an urge to reach out and touch it. "Nothing to _talk_ about, Charles? How about the insane way you left me standing on a train platform after five and a half years of being each other's _world_ and not a single word since--"

"We were schoolboys, Erik, it was another life and now we have to be adults about it. If you'll excuse me." He tried to brush past, only for Erik to grab his arm and snatch him back -- so close, too close -- if he leaned forward another inch he'd--

They held that inch a long, long moment, unbreathing.

"Careful, Erik," Charles murmured, cold mockery in his voice. "Someone might _see_. We all know how you'd hate that."

Erik staggered back, mouth falling open. Charles snatched his arm free and fled the classroom.

\---

Erik made his way back to his classroom, hardly seeing anything he passed, feeling sick and shaky with the kind of chilled flush that came from high fever. The heat was frustration and anger, no surprise there; the chill might, possibly, have been a lurking whisper of guilt, but he did not acknowledge that to himself.

The Potions room was, thankfully, still empty -- no, wait, there was someone shuffling through the cabinet at the furthest end. Erik let every bit of his simmering rage whip through his voice as he shouted, "What do you think you're doing?"

Professor Shaw jerked in surprise, raised an eyebrow at Erik. "Just came to see how your first day was going, my boy."

"Headmaster." Erik huffed a calming breath, rubbing his forehead. "I apologize, sir, I thought you were a student rifling the stores for a love potion or some nonsense."

"Ah, of course. My apologies for startling you. I couldn't help admiring my handiwork, I suppose." He flicked a hand at the cabinet of stoppered vials and jars and casks, all neatly labeled in his own handwriting. "So you've, what, three classes under your belt now? How did it go?"

"Two classes. And it went... well, it's only the first day. Hard to say." He fought a shudder at the memory of all those eyes -- some intimidated, some interested, most flatly unimpressed, all waiting eagerly for him to stumble. And he still had three more sets of them to work through today.

"Hard to say? Not at all, Erik. It is simple enough. Did you control the classroom, or did they control you? That is all that matters, in the end."

"I can control my students, Professor," Erik said stiffly, and Shaw laughed. The sound went right up Erik's spine. Shaw was a great man, a great wizard, and Erik owed him everything -- but he'd forgotten how unsettling the man could be.

"See that you do. I'm willing to bet you have already formed a decent idea of which students will be troublesome, which will be worthwhile, which will be quietly useless -- ah, yes, I see it in your face! Do share with me."

"Young Malfoy seems intelligent," Erik admitted. He'd been in the second class of the day, and was one of the few who hadn't spilled anything. "He listens, at least."

"Yes, an excellent family, the Malfoys," Shaw said, nodding. "As pure a bloodline as you'll find, and it shows. Any of the Muggle-borns giving you trouble?"

"Not... trouble, sir. They do seem to mostly fall into that 'quietly useless' category you mentioned," Erik sighed, voice edged with frustration. "Can't tell a cask from a cauldron, most of them -- I suppose they'll learn, but I can already see what a plague it will be, holding the others back long enough for them to catch up."

"Oh don't you dare, Professor Lehnsherr," Shaw said cheerfully. "Catching up is their responsibility, your duty is to those of the students who can make something of themselves. Don't bother trying to make the swine appreciate your pearls."

Erik wasn't sure how to respond to that. Muggle-borns _could_ learn, he'd seen it -- _Charles_ was Muggle-born -- and if it was a pain and a hassle, well, that was part and parcel of teaching, was it not? But arguing with Shaw was seldom fruitful and never wise. He contented himself with a cool "Yes, sir."

"I thought you might like to join me for a drink, when the day is over. Unwind a bit."

"Certainly, sir."

"Excellent. I'll see you at dinner, then." He clapped Erik on the shoulder and walked out.

Students began trickling in only moments later, taking up all Erik's attention, and it wasn't until midway through his lecture on brews, elixirs, philtres, drafts, and tinctures that he suddenly realized there were three vials missing from the cabinet where Shaw had been.

\---

"Wake up, Charlie, it's dinner time," Raven sang in the doorway of his office.

Charles jerked upright, papers scattering. "What? What, no, I wasn't asleep, I only--" He peered at his Muggle-style wristwatch. "Oh. I suppose I _was_ asleep, or else I'm having memory blackouts, never a good sign... Sorry, Raven, what?"

Raven shook her head. "Brain like a steel trap, that's my brother. Come on, it's time for dinner."

Charles swallowed. "Oh, I'll get one of the house-elves to bring me something later, I really have too much to do here--"

"You need to come up for air, Charles, we both know how you get. Come on." A more serious look settled briefly over her face. "Don't worry, I won't let him sit next to you again."

"Promise?" Charles said weakly, feeling ridiculous.

"Promise. Now let's go before we miss the first course."

Charles stretched, gathered the scattered papers, swung his Ravenclaw scarf around his neck -- the Great Hall would be cool -- and finally let Raven tug him down the corridor, linking her arm with his.

"He tried to talk to me today," Charles said softly.

"And?"

"I brushed him off." Charles swallowed, reliving a flash of that _too close one more inch._ "But I'm going to have to... I mean, we can't go on like this, we've got an entire year ahead of us of eating together and working together, we have to be able to talk to each other."

"Unfortunately, yes," Raven sighed.

"And it's been ten years, after all. He may be an entirely different man now. Goodness knows _I've_ changed."

Raven snorted. "Oh, yeah? How?"

"Well, I... I'm stronger, more confident. I don't have panic attacks during exams anymore."

"Only because you're giving them instead of taking them."

She was right, he reflected glumly, and in fact there had been that bad moment last year... Irrelevant, irrelevant. "What I'm getting at is that a lot can change in a decade. It's possible that he's no longer..."

"A bigot and a user?"

"He was never a user, Raven."

"You told me what he said, Charles, I don't think there's any other--"

" _No_ , Raven." He stopped in the corridor to face her, hands moving as he tried to articulate. "He never -- yes, he said those things, but it doesn't mean... He wasn't using me, Raven. Whatever else he was, he wasn't... It wasn't like that, Raven, that's the only... bearable..."

"Of course," Raven said, and the solemn pity in her eyes made his face burn. "You knew him best, Charles -- if you say that's not how it was, then that's not how it was."

Any reply Charles might have managed was swallowed by sudden hysterical screaming echoing through the halls.

Wands out, they ran toward the sound, Charles's mind already spinning with frantic plans to protect both Raven and the screaming student from whatever threat had made its way past the school's defenses. In the crazed warren that was Hogwarts, it took several minutes to track down the sound, which by then had faded from screams to whimpers. Charles hoped desperately that that was a good sign.

Finally they rounded a corner and found a plump blonde girl -- a Hufflepuff first-year, Charles thought -- curled up sobbing against the wall, with another, dark-haired girl crouched over her, simultaneously murmuring comforting things to her friend and glaring daggers at the other adult on the scene -- Erik Lehnsherr.

"--any sense at all, which may be par for the course with first-years but congratulations, you have set a new standard," Erik was ranting, his own wand in a white-knuckle grip. "I suppose I shouldn't expect better from a Muggle-born -- I am assuming you're Muggle-born, because no wizarding child with two brain cells to rub together would lose her mind at the sight of a _painting_. Oh, pull yourself together, girl, it's not going to hurt you!"

 _"What is going on here?"_ With effort, Charles kept his voice just a shade below a shout.

"Absolutely nothing," Erik said with disgust, putting his wand away. "The simpleton is afraid of snakes." He waved a hand at the painting on the wall opposite -- a portrait of Salazar Slytherin, with a great green-black anaconda wound about his shoulders. Both man and snake looked at Charles with baffled alarm, seeming a bit traumatized by the child's reaction to their presence.

"I'm s-sorry," the girl against the wall wailed, "I just turned the corner and there it was and it was _moving_ and _looking right at me_ \--"

"She's Muggle-born, we both are," the dark-haired girl said furiously. "We've never seen moving paintings before. It's a bit unsettling, you know."

"Can you fellows shuffle on, then, for a bit? Go visit someone else's frame? Good lads," Charles said to the portrait, while Raven pulled the blonde girl to her feet.

"Here, now. Dolly, isn't it? Weren't you in Transfiguration with me this afternoon?"

The girl hiccupped and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Dolly Dursley, ma'am."

"And your name?"

"Imogen Cox," said the dark-haired girl, who was still glaring at Erik. "And who's _he_?"

"Professor Lehnsherr, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House," Erik said between gritted teeth, "as you might know had you bothered to listen when the headmaster spoke last night, and you will treat me with the respect due to your superiors."

Raven's eyes flashed yellow, as they sometimes did when she was angry, but she kept her voice calm. "Come along, girls, let's get you cleaned up and calmed down. Never seen a magical portrait before, of course you were startled! I promise, they can't hurt you at all, they're still just paint for all that they move around and talk…" Raven led Dolly and Imogen down the hall toward the nearest girls' restroom.

"Silly child," Erik muttered. "Shouldn't have lost my temper, I suppose, but people like that don't belong here--"

 _"You."_ Charles thought he had put his wand away, but found it in his hand now, the point of it mere inches from Erik's throat. "If you ever speak to a student like that again -- stand there sneering insults at a frightened child -- I will do my very best to get you sacked. Shaw's protégé or not, there are ways around that and I will use them. Do we understand each other?"

Erik looked stunned. "Charles, I didn't mean -- I suppose I should have been more patient, but _honestly_ \--"

"You haven't changed at _all_ , have you?" Charles said bleakly. "Not one bit. Do you even remember what it's _like_ to be a child?" He bit back further unwise words, took a calming breath, put the wand away. "You may tell Raven not to wait on me. I won't be joining you for dinner."

He turned and strode back down the hallway, trying to remember how to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is [fanart](http://heresieirisee.tumblr.com/post/11178254249/welp-fanart-of-a-fanfic-of-a-fanart-of-a-mix-of) for this chapter!! Done by the lovely and amazing [Heresieirisee](http://heresieirisee.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik remembers what he has forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: While I drew on real hypnosis techniques for this chapter, I also just kinda did what I wanted with them. Don't take this as a practical guide to memory recovery, I am not in any way a therapist.

Charles's absence seemed to loom over the staff table, accentuated by Raven's glares in his direction. The other teachers gave Erik sidelong looks, whispered behind their hands; Erik wondered what stories Raven had been spreading. Some looked amused--particularly the Apparition instructor, Azazel, muttering some remark to Professor Logan, who had been teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts as long as Erik could remember--did the man age at all? Others seemed merely confused, though Erik rather thought that was the Care of Magical Creatures instructor's default expression.

"Something to say, McCoy?" Erik growled, and the lanky, bespectacled man flushed and looked away.

Professor Moira MacTaggert, the Hufflepuff Head, looked especially concerned; she and Charles had been casual friends in school, despite the two-year age gap and difference in Houses. In fact, now that he thought on it, Moira had been there the night Charles pulled him out of the lake.

And she'd been Charles's date at that end-of-term party--she'd retired early with what turned out to be the flu, and Raven, Erik's own escort that night, had snuck off with her friends to light fireworks over the lake. Leaving him and Charles alone in the furthest corner of the Hall, abandoned by their dates, maybe a tiny bit tipsy from vast quantities of butterbeer, with the party winding down but their spirits still high and the music still playing--a lot of old-fashioned Muggle stuff, Sixties music, and Charles couldn't believe he'd never heard of Elvis Presley, started singing along with exaggerated gusto--

 _"Wise men say  
Only fools rush in  
But I can't help falling in love with you…"_

 _And Erik, laughing, sweeping him a grand, elaborate bow to beg the honor of a dance…_

He shook off the memory and returned his attention to his dinner. The past might have been more pleasant than the here-and-now, but frankly it was no less painful thereby.

Finally, the meal ended, and Erik yearned to escape to his own rooms, but Professor Shaw caught his eye. Ah, yes. Why had he agreed to have a drink with the headmaster? Well, at least while he was with Shaw, he could be fairly certain Raven wouldn't drop on him from the ceiling shouting some particularly vile hex. _Fairly_ certain.

"Brandy or cognac?" Shaw asked as they settled into armchairs before his fireplace.

"Brandy, thank you," Erik said absently, torn between contradictory desires to only sip a bit for form's sake, and to get as drunk as he possibly could. Impaired judgment, particularly in Shaw's presence, was likely the last thing he needed, and yet the mellow numbness of alcohol sounded frighteningly appealing right now.

"Well, Erik, do I perceive a certain animosity between yourself and Professor Darkholme?" Shaw asked, looking amused, as he poured the drinks. "Connected, perhaps, to her adopted brother's absence from the table?"

For all of Shaw's interest in Erik's academic and magical achievements, he had never taken any note of his social life; Erik was unsurprised, and frankly relieved, at Shaw's ignorance of any history between himself and Charles.

"We had a disagreement," Erik said, as casually as he could manage, and related the story of the Muggle-born girls and the snake painting. Despite everything, he caught himself downplaying the severity of Charles's reaction, knowing Shaw would be displeased to hear of him threatening Erik's position. There was no reason to get Charles in trouble with the headmaster over a personal conflict.

Shaw _tsk_ ed, shaking his head. "Well, it shows I was right. The boy isn't ready to be headmaster. Too many ideals, not enough experience."

"I had wondered about that," Erik admitted cautiously. "About your being made headmaster when McGonagall retired, despite Xavier being deputy."

"Deputy for just two years, and teaching for only three. No, it wasn't hard to make the Ministry see that he was much too inexperienced. I myself was acting deputy headmaster for a year, prior to Xavier's arrival, and have near two decades of teaching under my belt."

"Of course." Two decades of teaching Potions. Erik chewed on the urge to ask about the missing vials from the classroom; if Shaw took them, he had every right, and wouldn't appreciate being questioned. If he hadn't, Erik would just as soon not reveal his inability to supervise his own classroom, at least not until he had a culprit in hand. He swallowed the question, and some brandy.

"Xavier will be ready enough by the time I retire," Shaw was saying, "if the Ministry insists on him. He's not incompetent, I have to admit, but--a Muggle-born Headmaster? Quite the queasy thought. Of course you, on the other hand, come from a very respectable bloodline indeed."

Erik disguised a grimace in another sip of brandy. He had no desire whatsoever to be groomed as a future Headmaster--thus far he was barely coping with being a mere teacher.

"Very skilled wizards, both your parents," Shaw was saying. "Their work was extraordinary--I've had the privilege of handling one of their wands, it was an amazement. Did they teach you anything of their craft, before their accident?"

"It was no accident." Erik's voice felt abruptly rough and heavy in his mouth. In his mind's eye he saw a flicker of the warm light and gleaming displays of his parents' specialty wand shop in Dusseldorf, and the brown stain on the sidewalk outside it. He rolled his empty glass in his hands. "Mugged by Muggles. It could be a bloody punchline."

"Not a very funny one, I'd say," Shaw said in the nearest approximation of sensitivity Erik had ever heard from the man. He reached to refill Erik's glass. "A crying shame, every bit of it--not just their lives but their knowledge lost, if they didn't teach you…"

"I was only nine," Erik said, and let that stand as a negative. The truth, he realized, his hand tightening convulsively around the glass of brandy, was that he didn't remember. When he tried to reach past that single flickering glimpse of the wand shop, there was nothing. He knew what it had looked like. He knew what their home on the floor above it had looked like, could remember his mother and father's faces. But it was like Muggle photographs, static images. He couldn't remember any particular incident, couldn't recall anything that had _happened_ there, with them…

In his mind he heard Charles's furious voice. _"Do you even remember what it's like to be a child?"_

"I didn't mean to upset you," Shaw was saying, sounding more curious than contrite, and Erik realized he had spilled a slosh of brandy down his robes only when he saw Shaw holding out a large napkin. He took it and dabbed at the spill.

"I was just thinking of the irony," he said, and it certainly was something he'd thought about before. "Wizards, trained from childhood to wield powers Muggles can barely comprehend, and yet Muggle bullets cut them down just as easily..."

"That's true," Shaw said thoughtfully. "There's no spell faster than a bullet. Their one advantage, like a rabbit with a single fang… I wonder if there might not be some way to erect a shield of magical energy, if one had enough warning of course…"

Shaw continued speaking, but Erik was no longer listening. He was trying to remember his mother's smile, his father's voice, anything but the emotionless _facts_... He had spent his entire adolescence trying _not_ to think about them, trying to forget the pain. He never imagined how bitterly he might regret succeeding.

At last Shaw stood and saw him to the door, with a handshake and hearty words along the line of "get the hang of it, my boy" and "do splendidly, I'm sure." Erik hoped he was making the proper responses. Then he was alone in the silent hallway.

His feet chose their own path, Erik swore. He did not intentionally direct them toward the suite of rooms always reserved for the Head of Ravenclaw House.

He ended up there, all the same.

Charles answered the door in his pajamas, those same ridiculous pinstripe pajamas or else their cloned brothers, looking sleepy and soft and a little flushed, and Erik knew exactly how he would feel in bed right now, warm and boneless and clingy-cuddlesome _(chuckling "How are you not a Slytherin, Charles, bloody boa constrictor")_ , and the years hardly seemed to have touched him, still slight and pale and boyish with those gorgeous eyes to drown in (a little dilated now in the dimness and _don't_ think about the last time you saw them that way) and those soft, sweet lips that he could and had spent _hours…_

Erik found he could hardly breathe through the burning _need_ to just tug Charles over to the bed and curl up with him, possibly forever.

"What is it, Erik?" Charles said, wary.

"I need your help."

"What? Are you hurt?"

"No. I don't remember."

"Don't remember if you're hurt?" He visibly caught a whiff of the spilled brandy, face hardening. "Blast you, Erik, you're _drunk_ \--"

"No, it's what you said, Charles. You asked if I remember being a child. I don't. I can't really remember anything, nothing real, from before the orphanage. My _parents_ , Charles, I've all but forgotten them. I don't _remember._ "

Charles looked at him a long moment, searchingly. Whatever he saw in Erik's face seemed to worry him. "All right," he said at last, his voice somewhere between resignation and exasperation, as if he already knew he would regret this. "All right, come on in."

Neither of them spoke while Charles threw on a dressing gown, started up a self-boiling teapot, moved piles of books from the chairs before the fire, stoked the embers in the grate back up to a merry crackle. Erik sat, hands clasped together so they wouldn't shake.

Charles's rooms were exactly what he would have expected--an organized chaos of books and parchments and unwashed teacups, scattered with oddments and devices that might have been Divination tools or something Charles found on a sidewalk. The room smelled of tea and ink and the blooms of the little collection of plants on the windowsill. Aside from the fire and Charles's shuffling about, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Erik stared at it. It was an ornate, multi-layered, delicate-looking thing, with eight different faces (all reading differently, who knew what Charles had set them to) and stained-glass butterflies that would actually fly about the room when the hour chimed. He knew, because he bought it for Charles. Charles had pined after it for months, quietly, staring at it through the shop window in Hogsmeade, before Erik could scrape up the money to get it. Charles had actually teared up when he opened it, much to their mutual embarrassment. That had been… a good night. A really good night.

And Charles had kept it. Perhaps he'd merely been determined not to let Erik poison an object he loved on its own merits; Erik was glad to see it either way.

Finally Charles took the other chair before the fire, holding out a mug for Erik. He clenched both hands around its warmth, let the scent of peppermint tea coil around him.

Charles sipped his own tea and cleared his throat. "You need my help, you said. You want me to help you remember?"

"Yes." He waited for Charles to ask why he'd come to _him_ with this. But after all, the answer was obvious; Charles was the Divination professor. No one in this building knew the workings of the human mind and memory better than he did.

They could both comfortably pretend that was the reason.

Charles regarded his tea almost grimly. "I've helped people recover lost memories before," he admitted. "But the process is rather… It can only work between two people who trust each other deeply."

"I trust you," Erik said simply. Whatever the context, whatever the consequences, Erik knew he would never hesitate to put his life, his sanity, everything he valued, into Charles's hands. That's where it was already.

He probably wouldn't be admitting that if he'd had a little less brandy.

Charles held his eyes a moment, took a deep, not-entirely-steady breath, then got up and went to a cabinet in a corner. He returned carrying a shallow stone basin covered in runes.

"Is that a Pensieve?" Erik had heard of them, but never seen one.

"Belonged to Albus Dumbledore," Charles confirmed, looking, for a moment, just slightly star-struck. "Headmistress McGonagall left it in my keeping. I'd, ah, appreciate your not mentioning to Professor Shaw..."

"Of course." Erik waved a reassuring hand. It occurred to him he had just casually promised to keep a secret that could theoretically get him sacked or even thrown in prison, and that his main feeling about it amounted to _for Charles, yes_. The brandy had definitely been a mistake.

"Right. Well, here's what's worked for me before." Charles situated the Pensieve on a little table between them, pulled his chair around to more directly face Erik. "I can put your mind into a state that lends itself to remembering, that pulls the memories you're seeking to the forefront of your mind, and then pull those memories into the Pensieve, where you can examine them at leisure."

"Sounds good."

"Settle back, then, until you feel comfortable and relaxed. Close your eyes. Now listen to me very carefully, my friend. You're going to relax now. I want you to imagine that you're in a calm, peaceful place. Somewhere you always feel safe and happy. Where are you?"

Erik thought for a long, awkward moment, unable to come up with such a place. "Here is fine," he said at last.

That seemed to startle Charles. "All right," he said after a moment. "All right then. Just focus on how calm and relaxed you feel. Let your breath come slow and deep. Let your feet relax, and your legs relax. Now your hips, and your waist... all the tension draining out until they're perfectly relaxed..."

He continued up the muscle groups, all the way to Erik's face and head. By then Erik felt strangely floaty, as if the darkness behind his eyelids were a warm, cocooning sea extending in all directions. Only Charles's voice anchored him to the world.

"Are you ready to remember, Erik?"

It took a moment to remember how to speak. "Yes."

"Do you trust me, Erik?"

"Yes."

"Good. Imagine you see a staircase. Feel it beneath your feet. The memories you're looking for, they're at the bottom of those stairs, waiting for you. We're going to go get them."

"It's dark down there."

"That's all right. There's no need to be afraid. I'm with you."

"…All right."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes." Erik could see the stairs, feel them, cold stone spiraling down into darkness. It looked like the staircase to the Slytherin common room.

"Let's go, then. Start walking down the stairs. As you walk, you're going to feel more and more calm and safe. Every step is bringing you closer to what you're looking for, what you need. You are perfectly safe and relaxed as you walk down the stairs. As you walk, you begin to think about your mother. Her face. Her eyes. Her hands. Her voice. Her smile. When you reach the bottom of the stairs, you will find a memory of your mother. But we're not there yet. We're going to keep walking down the stairs, getting more calm and relaxed the further we go."

Charles's voice led him downward for several minutes before he said, "We've reached the bottom of the stairs now. What do you see?"

"Nothing," Erik said. "It's dark. I'm not afraid, I know you're with me. But I can't see anything."

"There is a memory here for you, even if you can't see it. Reach your hand out and you will find it."

He reached out--it would occur to him, later, to wonder if his hand physically moved or not, he couldn't tell--and his fingers closed around something floating in the air. It was small and round, very much like a glow-ball, but warm to the touch. "I found it. It's here."

"Good. Very good, Erik. Hold onto it. We're going to bring it up the stairs. You'll find that going up is faster than going down. You have what you need now. You have that memory in your hand. You come up the stairs quickly--not running, you're still calm, relaxed, but happy. With every step up the staircase, you start to feel more alert, more connected to your body. You still have that memory in your hand. You are still calm and relaxed. But you are starting to come back to the room where you and I are sitting in front of the fire. When you reach the top of the staircase, you will open your eyes, and we will open up that memory."

"I'm here," Erik said, and opened his eyes.

Immediately, Charles leaned forward and pressed the tip of his wand to Erik's temple. It drew forth a long, silver thread that half-floated, half-fell into the Pensieve, and drifted there, a wispy shimmering thing halfway between smoke and liquid silver.

Erik stared at the memory, and then at Charles, whose smile had a happy, tired, so-proud-of-you glow that made Erik's breath catch. "You did it, Erik," he said. "Now let's see what you've found."

Erik took a deep breath, then reached out and touched the shimmering memory.

It opened around them like unfolding origami, and they weren't in Charles's chambers anymore, weren't in Hogwarts at all. Around them were the white walls and dark rafters of Erik's childhood home. Night was falling outside the leaded windows, and a little boy in short pants and a checkered shirt, perhaps seven or eight years old, was setting plates around a wooden table.

Erik stood, staring down at his child-self in open-mouthed wonder. Charles grinned beside him.

"Look at you, such a cute child," Charles murmured. "Wonder what happened?"

"Erik!" called a woman's voice from the next room. "Don't forget to light the candles!"

"Yes, Mama!" The boy set down the plates and narrowed his eyes at the little candelabra in the middle of the table. He held out his hands toward the candles, face settling into an almost comical expression of determination and focus.

Long seconds passed in silence.

And then the candles burst into flame, the room suddenly overflowing with golden light.

And Erik _remembered_ now, he wasn't just watching the little boy, he _was_ the boy, staring huge-eyed at the little dancing flames as his world changed, erupted with possibility, with the exhilirating knowledge that he could do extraordinary things, that there was wonder and _magic_ in the world and he was part of it.

He turned to the doorway, where his mother was standing with her hand at her mouth, eyes wet in the dazzling light, and she swooped down to wrap her arms around him, laughing, stroking his cheek, saying over and over again how proud she was, how _exciting_ this was, how her _schatzchen_ was growing up, how proud his father would be when he got home. How very much she loved her little boy.

The memory folded back down around them, golden light fading to silver smoke in the bottom of the stone basin. Charles caught it with the tip of his wand and fed it back into Erik's temple. He could feel it settle, warm and solid, into his head. They were standing--when had that happened?

"You won't need my help to remember that now," Charles said. "It ought to open the way to your other memories, as well. Some of them, at least." His voice was unsteady, and he brushed a tear away pseudo-casually with his thumb.

Erik knew his own face was wet. His chest felt ready to tear open with the joy of having his mother's face--his mother's love--returned to him. Joy and pain, remembering his mother was lost to him now.

Charles had no counterpart to this memory, he knew. His wealthy Muggle parents had been distant at best, unsettled by their strange, extraordinary son. Far from greeting his magic with love and pride, they had done their utmost to ignore and deny it. As if Hogwarts were just another boarding school. As if Charles were something to be ashamed of.

Charles was hurting right now, and he had to do _something_ , needed to let his own joy spill over somehow onto Charles, who needed and deserved it so much more. Erik pulled Charles to his chest, arms tight around him, and murmured, "Thank you" into his hair.

Charles didn't draw back, as Erik half-expected, but seemed rather to burrow in, arms snaking around Erik's waist. "You're entirely welcome, my friend," he said, muffled by Erik's chest.

And this, _this_ was coming home, not the watery light of Slytherin, _this_ \--the warm pressure of Charles against him, the scent of him, the texture of his hair against Erik's cheek. This was where he belonged, where he should always be.

Charles made no move to pull away, and Erik made no move to let go. It was possible, even, through no conscious decision of his own, that Erik's hand in Charles's hair was angling his face up toward Erik's own.

Charles still did not draw away.

A sharp knock pattered against the door, and Charles jumped back with a gasp.

"Coming," he called. "Just-- just a moment."

He turned away and took a gulp of long-cold tea, then hurried to the door without looking at Erik at all.

"Moira! Do come in."

Erik suppressed a snarl as Moira stepped into the room, her gaze alternating between Charles and Erik with concern and suspicion, respectively. "We missed you at dinner, Charles. I saw that your light was still on, so I thought I'd just check in. Make sure everything was okay."

"Oh, everything's fine," Charles said, brightly artificial. "Just taking a moment to catch up with Erik, you know, haven't seen each other in such a long time."

"Mmm," Moira said, sounding as if she doubted whether this long separation were a bad thing. Erik wondered again how much she knew.

"But I was just leaving," Erik said. "Charles, if you could point me the right direction, I'm having to re-learn my way around this rabbit warren…"

"Of course." Charles flickered a smile at Moira and followed Erik into the corridor.

"The Great Hall's that way," he pointed, "down that staircase and turn right. From there, take the left fork at the three suits of armor…"

"I know the way," Erik said.

"Ah." Charles fell silent, and didn't quite look at him.

It would be a mistake, Erik thought, to push, however badly he wanted to press Charles against the wall and kiss him breathless. It would be a mistake. So he only raised a hand to brush the hair out of Charles's eyes, murmured "Goodnight, _Maus_ ," and walked away.

 

Charles had to lean his forehead against the door and breathe for several minutes before he could go in and face Moira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The choice of song in this section is in homage to my induction to this fandom, LyknScribe's lovely long post-beach fix-it fic "Echoes of the Mind," found on deviantArt here: http://lyknscribe.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=48#/d3j2hsi. And yes, don't worry, you will see more of that dance. Eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which virtually everyone is angry, and Erik does not have fond memories of graduation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: Right about the time I was writing Erik storming out of the Hall in this section, my co-worker started playing "Rolling in the Deep" on her guitar. THIS STORY HAS AN IRL SOUNDTRACK, WHAT.
> 
> Also: For flashback purposes, have some young!Erik (http://fuckyeahmichaelfassbender.tumblr.com/post/10814851320) and young!Charles (http://www.ktnb.net/caps/cod/cod032.jpg, http://www.ktnb.net/caps/cod/cod021.jpg, http://www.ktnb.net/caps/cod/cod059.jpg ~~can't you pick just one you hopeless fangirl~~ )

The first week of classes limped by. Erik managed to refrain from maiming even his stupidest students. He recovered an overjoyed Scorpius Malfoy's scarf from the King's Cross lost and found (earning an entirely unnecessary and embarrassing hug), and put the fear of God and Erik Lehnsherr into the hearts of his three punch-happy students from the first night. Young Imogen Cox continued to be an attitude problem at every turn, with fat little Dolly Dursley flittering ineffectually in her shadow, but it was nothing Erik couldn't handle.

"Bullying the child isn't handling it," Charles muttered at dinner. He no longer flinched when Erik took the chair next to his, though he also made no attempt to stop Raven from snagging it whenever she could.

"I count as a victory anything that keeps her foul mouth closed long enough for some knowledge to seep through her ears," Erik said. "I can tell she's not an idiot. She could learn if she wasn't too busy making life difficult for her teachers."

Moira glared. "She's had a hard life, Lehnsherr."

"Of course she has, she's in Hufflepuff, that's hardship enough right there."

Professor Shaw barked a laugh at the head of the table, startling them all. He seldom joined them for meals, even more rarely participated in conversation.

"A difficult childhood doesn't excuse disrespectful behavior," Shaw said, "Hufflepuff or not. Our own Professor Lehnsherr had an extremely difficult childhood. Nevertheless, he was ever a well-mannered and quick-learning boy."

"Yeah," Raven muttered under her breath. "Didn't he turn out great?"

"A student who won't listen to her betters is worthless," Shaw said. "Worse than worthless, because she sets a poor example for the easily led."

"I'll work with her, sir," Moira said.

"See that you do, MacTaggert, or she'll face the consequences."

\---

 

Erik had no luck figuring out what had become of the missing supplies from the back cabinet. According to inventory, the stolen items were scurvy grass, ginger root, scarab beetles, and possibly some half-catalogued skinkroot. It might be ingredients for a basic Wit-Sharpening Potion of Power-Boosting Potion, popular choices for getting through exam week. Well, if a student was trying to get a jump on his studies -- Erik would still eviscerate him for stealing, but it was considerably less alarming than it might have been. Though too much messing around with Power-Boosting Potions could be alarming for the student's health. He might need to alert Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary to the possibility of someone dragging in with severe exhaustion and magical burn-out…

He spent his evenings, after preparing for the next day's classes, exploring the rediscovered memories of his childhood. As Charles had promised, they came easily now, as long as he was calm and focused. He remembered baking with his mother, singing with his father, remembered snow outside his bedroom window and the tabby kitten his father brought in from the rain. He remembered watching his parents at work in the wand shop, the dozen phases of careful carving and assembling and layered spellwork that went into every wand. They had, in fact, taught him quite a bit of their craft, though his childish mind had retained fairly little and understood less.

Unlike the mainstream wand shops, like Ollivander's, the Lehnsherrs had mostly made wands on commission, each tailored to a particular user and often to a particular purpose--heavy-duty wands for Aurors; quick, responsive wands for duelists; delicate, precise wands for physicians. They started work on Erik's wand the day after his magic manifested, involving him at every step. In the end it was longer and sturdier than most wands, especially a child's first wand, but it fit Erik's hand like he was born holding it -- a 14-inch length of dark-shining blackthorn wood around a dragon-heartstring core. A _strong_ wand, his father said, for strong magic, for a strong wizard.

The wand in Erik's hand now was nearly identical -- blackthorn, dragon heartstring, fourteen inches -- and it had been almost like finding an old friend, when Mr. Ollivander placed it in his hand. But it still hurt that the wand his parents had made for him was gone, lost to the icy darkness of the lake.

_"I know what this means to you, but you're going to drown. You've got to let it go."_

Speaking of Charles, Erik saw little of him except at meals, and he wondered if that was how things were going to be -- polite conversation, or more often polite arguments, once or twice a day, for the rest of their lives. In some ways it was worse than never seeing him at all.

He should be angrier at Charles, he knew. The way he had stormed off with no warning or explanation, and no contact for _ten years_ \-- Erik had a right to be angry, and he'd exercised it, for years, stewing in his rage. He _was_ still angry, he could feel the burn of it in his veins sometimes--but it was so quiet, under the other things burning there, that he could convince himself it didn't matter, it could wait, all he wanted was to have things the way they used to be.

Because he wasn't kidding himself anymore about why he was here. Shaw could have argued about prestige and privilege and wasted potential until he was blue-faced and Erik would have been unmoved, but once he'd mentioned that Charles Xavier was teaching there, it had taken him less than a minute to accept the position.

There would be time for anger, time to demand explanations and exchange whatever apologies were necessary, once Charles was back in his arms where he belonged.

 

The anger came boiling out, though, midway through the second week.

When Madam Salvador, the flying instructor, reported to the hospital wing with a stomach bug, Professor Shaw, perhaps remembering Erik's Quidditch days, casually put him in charge of her classes for the day. He had the Ravenclaws first.

"It was my job to teach them to fly a broomstick," he told Charles at dinner, "not to coddle their nerves."

"Erik," Charles said between his teeth, "you pushed a frightened child _off the top of a building_."

"And he _flew_!"

"That's not the point!"

"I think it is, actually."

"What if he _hadn't_ flown?"

The argument increased in volume and volatility as they debated the odds of _"Accio dunderhead"_ saving the incompetent flyer from a messy death, and the other teachers were listening in thinly-veiled amusement -- until Erik, spurred by a sudden flash of rage even he couldn't explain, leaped to his feet, slamming a fist onto the table.

"Curse you, Charles, you've no right." He was breathing quite a bit harder than the argument warranted, and it was making him strangely light-headed. "You gave up any right to judge my actions ten years ago when you _left_ me to figure things out for myself. If you wanted a vote in the kind of man I turned out to be, well, you had it and you -- you bloody well abstained."

He turned and left the Hall, refusing the feel the dozens -- if not hundreds -- of pairs of eyes on his back.

 

He made it maybe halfway to his rooms before he had to stop, leaning a hand against the wall, trying to breathe through the anger and strange dizzy fear singing under his skin.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he just had time to smooth back his hair and straighten his robes before Raven rounded the corner.

"Charles sent me," she said, crossing her arms as she came to a stop several steps away. "Not out loud, you understand…"

He did understand. Charles and Raven didn't need words anymore. Erik had been jealous, once upon a time, of the bond between Charles and the girl he befriended on his very first train to Hogwarts, the girl he'd convinced his wealthy parents to take in when she was orphaned near the end of fifth year. They'd made a peculiar triangle, he and Raven competing for Charles's attention -- Erik wasn't sure if Charles had ever been aware of Raven's crush on him, but by the time they graduated, it had settled into sisterly affection. With a dash of Mama Bear.

"We were friends, too, weren't we?" Erik heard himself saying. He couldn't say she'd ever been a priority in his life the way Charles was, but he'd missed her all the same. More than he expected.

"Yes," Raven admitted painfully. "We were friends. Until you hurt Charles."

"I never meant to. I never would."

"You did it anyway."

He let out a long breath, tipping his head back against the wall. Silence reigned.

"I don't know if I ever thanked you," Raven said. "You saved my -- not my life, not even my sanity, really, but you saved something of me. With that kiss. Charles… Charles just didn't understand. He just kept assuring me they'd find some way to reverse it."

'It' being the experimental transfiguration spell that blew up in Raven's face, disabling her Metamorphmagus ability and turning her skin scaly blue for the better part of a term. This was not, of course, nearly the social disaster at Hogwarts that it would have been at a Muggle school, but that didn't mean no one laughed, or mocked, or flinched away. Including the boy Raven had been crushing on that year. And for months, they'd been unsure whether it could ever be undone.

Erik had been the one to find her crying in a study carrel at the library, and do the only thing he could think of to show her she was still beautiful. She _was_ beautiful, and the kiss had been very pleasant in its way. Remembering that gave Erik the courage for Magda, after… after Charles. Of course _that_ had worked out so bloody well…

"You're welcome," Erik said.

Raven bit her lip. "It won't keep me from using that impotence hex I've been researching. If you hurt Charles again."

"Duly noted," Erik said drily.

They nodded to each other, like duelists saluting, and she walked away.

\---

 

Erik paced his rooms for several minutes, trying to settle himself, finally resorted to a drink and the comfort of his memory routine. But the required state of calm focus proved difficult to achieve, and the only memories that would come were not from his childhood in Dusseldorf, but from Hogwarts, ten years before.

The day before graduation, the Slytherin team captain, Parkinson, had called one last Quidditch practice, just for fun. Charles hadn't wanted him to go, which led to an almost shorthand version of their too-familiar argument--

_"Stop clinging, Charles, I'm allowed to have friends, I can't spend every waking moment with you!"_

_"That's not what -- you never -- but fine, never mind, do as you like!"_

So he'd gone, and had a great time swooping around the Quidditch pitch one last time, batting a Bludger back and forth with the other Beater, Higgs -- also graduating -- until they were both tired and breathless with laughter. The harsh words with Charles left an uneasy knot in his stomach, but he'd make it up to Charles later, he always did.

As they walked off the pitch in the waning light, Parkinson flung his arms over Erik and Higgs's shoulders and bemoaned their impending graduation in an uncharacteristic show of sentimentality. "I don't know how I'll replace you boys, I just don't," he said. "You've been the best Beaters anyone could ask for, excellent representatives of the House!"

Erik couldn't help smiling, warmed by the unexpected compliment. "I've certainly tried my best, Cap."

"Oh? Hanging about with Mudbloods, that's trying your best?" Higgs poked him with his broom, laughing. "You and that puppy Xavier."

Erik tried not to let his cheeks heat. "Yeah, well, someone has to do my homework. Xavier's pretty smart for a Mudblood."

"Doesn't hurt that the pup's desperately in love with you," Parkinson snickered.

"Ha, I wondered about that!" Higgs said triumphantly. "He's a pretty one, you know. Fess up, Lehnsherr, you been letting all that desperate pretty go to waste?"

"Come on, does that sound like the kind of thing I'd do?" And what he _meant_ was that taking advantage of a younger boy's crush wasn't the kind of thing he'd do, but it came out wrong, and he didn't try to correct himself because Higgs and Parkinson were hooting with laughter, cat-calling and congratulating him, and Erik realized how much he was looking forward to not having conversations like these. Which made him wonder why he was having them now, why he was friends with these people at all, but it was practically graduation. Why rock the boat, soon it wouldn't matter.

Suddenly he desperately wanted to be with Charles, to apologize for snapping at him earlier, to spend their last night at Hogwarts playing chess at their secret spot on the roof or just curled up somewhere together. But he couldn't find him, or Raven either, and when he finally persuaded a Ravenclaw to look for them in the dormitories, the kid said they weren't there.

He didn't see Charles until the graduation ceremony in the morning, and he looked terrible, pale and sleepless and shaky.

"Are you all right?" Erik tried to discreetly take his hand, hidden in the folds of his dress robes, but Charles -- perhaps not noticing? -- shifted away.

"I'm fine," he said curtly, without looking at him.

All through the ceremony, and their last boat ride back across the lake, and their last trip on the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross Station, Charles was quiet and distant. Was he that sad about leaving Hogwarts? Was he still angry about their tiff the night before? Surely he wouldn't let such a minor exchange of words ruin today...

They arrived at King's Cross with twenty minutes to spare before they caught their next train, the first of many in the long, tangled route they had planned with such excitement, their whirlwind celebration tour of landmarks of the wizarding world -- Godric's Hollow, Little Hangleton, Grimmauld Place. Erik honestly didn't care where they went, he just wanted to travel with Charles, to have this, this almost-like-a-honeymoon trip, just the two of them, no more judgmental eyes watching, no more hiding. Charles had been in transports over the whole idea.

And now he was just standing there on the platform, not looking at anything.

Somewhat desperately, Erik stepped up behind Charles and wrapped his arms around his waist -- probably the most open display of affection he'd ever allowed himself -- and murmured in Charles's ear, "You're beautiful, you know."

In a harder, colder voice than Erik had ever heard from him before, Charles replied, "So I've been told. And you're not one to let _desperate pretty_ go to waste, are you? After all, someone has to do your homework, and I'm pretty smart for a Mudblood."

And in that moment of freefalling terror, Erik made the worst mistake of his life. In a situation where his only hope would have been abject, belly-up surrender, he got _angry_ instead, angry enough to be _stupid_ , to make counter-accusations, to attempt a defense of the indefensible. And it ended with Charles, bright-eyed with fury and tears, cursing him out in the most precise, controlled, and grammatically-complex manner imaginable, before turning to leave.

Erik grabbed his arm, and Charles turned on him with a snarl.

"Let me go, Erik."

And Erik knew he had to be eight kinds of a fool to actually do it, but his hand opened, and Charles disappeared into the crowd.

And now, ten silent miserable years later, Erik finally had a chance to fix that mistake. If he could just figure out _how_.

Sick to death of the inside his own head, Erik flung himself out of his chair and into the bathroom to get ready for bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is chess and a reward for good behavior.

Charles took a deep breath, shifted the boxed chess set under his arm, and knocked on Erik's door.

There was no response for so long that he almost turned away, in mingled disappointment and relief. Then the door opened, and Erik stared down at him, looking stunned.

Stunned and fresh from the shower, Charles realized, his hair damp and messy, a dark bathrobe thrown over… nothing, as far as he could tell.

"Charles?"

"Yes. Um." Charles shook himself, tried to make his voice crisp and professional. "We're going to have to work together, Erik. The students will be the ones to suffer if we can't interact peacefully. To that end, I thought we might make an effort to f--" His voice broke, most unexpectedly. "To forget our history and be friends."

"Friends?" Erik said, with a strange mix of anger and gentleness. "No, Charles. I don't think that's possible."

And Charles already knew that, didn't he. He could never be _friends_ with Erik Lehnsherr. He couldn't be friends with anyone who said and believed the things Erik did, and if, somehow, he could overlook those things… it wouldn't be _friendship_ he wanted. When it came to Erik, he could either satisfy his heart or his principles, and this insane attempt at a middle ground did neither.

"Right." Charles swallowed, held out the box. "Well, whatever we are, can we be something that plays chess?"

Erik stared at him a long moment, then ran a hand through the wet mess of his hair. "I guess," he said, and stepped back to let Charles through the door.

Charles moved a half-empty glass of -- yes, German beer -- from a little table by the chair at the hearth, scouted out another chair, and set up the chessboard while Erik popped into the bedchamber. He emerged in a black turtleneck and slacks, hair smoothed back; Charles would have thought him ready to greet a new day, rather than a relaxed evening in his own rooms, except that he needed a shave.

 _Don't think about it, don't…_ But it was too late not to notice the firelight glinting off the ginger tints in his stubble, too late not to remember laughter and the cool slide of the canned foam, teaching Erik how to shave back in fifth year because even Charles's distant father had taken the time for that, but Erik had no father at all.

 _\--"Ack, Erik, stop that, you're going to -- mmphm! That tastes_ terrible, _Erik!" And Erik chuckling unrepentantly, wiping the foam from Charles's lips with his thumb before leaning in for another frothy white kiss--_

"What is this, Charles?" Erik said, sounding uncertainly amused as he looked down at the chessboard.

"I seem to have misplaced several of the pieces from both my Muggle set and my Second Wizard War Commemorative set," he said sheepishly. "In order to play a complete game, therefore, one must combine the two."

"Bloody disconcerting, it is," said a white bishop in the shape of Ronald Weasley, "sharing the board with these dead lumps of plastic."

"I still have the black bishops," Charles said, "but I thought you'd prefer the 'dead lumps' in this case, since the black bishops are in fact Lucius and Draco Malfoy and tend to change sides without notice."

"I love how you've assumed I want to play black."

"Well, you always did before."

"It didn't used to involve actually casting myself as Voldemort." Erik picked up the pale, sneering, noseless black king with an expression of distaste.

Charles let his heart warm, for a moment, to the sight of Erik disdaining Lord Voldemort. He might have unpleasant ideas about blood purity, but he was no Wizarding Hitler.

Not being Hitler was surely the lowest requirement for the status of Half-Decent Human Being. Still, it was good to know Erik met the minimums.

"How strange to be living history," Erik murmured, setting Voldemort down again. "I wonder if they ever play chess with their own pieces?"

"Comparatively few of them are still living, actually." Charles couldn't help the sadness in his voice, looking down at his diminutive Lupin, Dumbledore, Snape… He'd studied them all so avidly in school, he almost felt he knew them.

"Enough to fill our halls with their out-of-control offspring," Erik growled, plucking his half-drunk beer from the hearthstone.

Charles laughed. "So you've encountered the phenomenon known somewhat unfairly as the Potter Pack?" James Potter, Freddy Weasley and Teddy Lupin had been the terror of the school for some years now, ably assisted by his own Victoire and Dominique, and this year had brought a fresh crop of younger siblings -- two little Weasley girls and James Potter's brother Albus -- who had only doubled the chaos. Mostly Gryffindors, thank goodness, and so Logan's problem -- though Logan seemed mostly to encourage them.

"Feral savages, the lot of them," Erik was ranting, "all but your Dominique, and I get the uneasy feeling she's only quieter about it. They think they can get away with anything, and the devil of it is they almost can, they're cheeky and violent and never seem to be listening, but they _still_ know the right answers to everything--"

"They're not bad kids, any of them, you just have to earn their respect," Charles said, moving a pawn. "They've grown up as celebrities, through no fault of their own, and they need a firm hand."

"Oh, they're getting it, never fear." Erik's smile was alarming. He moved a knight -- Amycus Carrow -- out from behind his pawns.

"How's it going with the Slytherins?" Charles asked, and listened intently as Erik treated him to a detailed report on the manifold flaws and achievements of his students -- the pleasantly surprising competence of his prefects, the continuing discipline problem of the Ashworth brothers, his certainty that Professor Logan had a grudge against the House. He talked a great deal about Scorpius Malfoy, who was clearly becoming a favorite.

"He follows me around," Erik said with exasperation. "I turn around and he's there, not even wanting anything, just there, offering to help me with whatever I'm doing, hanging on everything I say. It's annoying. And it's not going to win him points with the other boys, to be such a brown-noser."

"He's very close to his father, I think," Charles said, "misses him a great deal. You seem to have been elected substitute parent." He knew he was smiling at Erik with ill-advised fondness, couldn't seem to stop. Erik was so animated now, so _passionate_ , affection and intelligence pouring off him largely in the form of irritation with the occasional dash of unholy glee. It was so _achingly_ familiar and the more it hurt, the more Charles smiled, because the alternative was to flee the room and he couldn't bear to do that.

"Careful, now," said his Dumbledore piece as he moved it to intercept Erik's Bellatrix Lestrange and oh yes, that wouldn't work at all, would it? Charles quickly put Dumbledore back in his original place and moved a rook instead. "Your mind isn't in the game tonight, lad," Dumbledore said. "Keep your focus, or you might find yourself in serious trouble." He glanced sideways at Erik.

Erik had stopped talking, studying the gameboard with silent focus. The candles in the room had guttered, one by one, leaving only the fire in the grate, which fluttered and crackled and glinted in Erik's gingery stubble. For a moment Charles felt utterly light and breathless, watching the light dance over Erik's hands and hair and shoulders and sharp, pale, changeable eyes. Erik reached for a pawn, teeth worrying his bottom lip, and Charles shivered.

"Are you cold?" Erik said, glancing up. "Fire's getting a bit low, isn't it?" He put out a hand for the poker but, only half-looking, missed and touched the metal screen over the fireplace instead. He snatched his hand back, hissing, and Charles was beside him before he could think, kneeling by the chair and gripping Erik's wrist, turning his hand to see the burn.

"Nasty, that," he muttered, pulling out his wand with the other hand. "This ought to help. _Tepesco!_ " Soft blue-green light settled over the burn and soaked into it, leaving the skin considerably less red than before. "You ought to see Madam Pomfrey tomorrow, though, get some of her burn-healing paste, it works wonders."

"Of course," Erik said. "Thank you."

Charles became aware that he was not getting up, nor was he letting go of Erik's wrist. He could feel Erik's pulse beneath his fingertips. It was getting faster.

Very slowly, Erik raised and shifted their joined hands, pressed his lips to the center of Charles's palm. "Thank you," he murmured again.

Heat washed through Charles's body, and he suspected he would have swayed on his feet if he hadn't already been kneeling. He tried not to look at Erik but Erik's eyes were locked to his as he bent his head to kiss Charles's wrist. Charles felt his fingers curl, gliding across the skin of Erik's jaw, and Erik's eyes fluttered closed.

"It's your move, Professor," the Ron Weasley chesspiece called, hurriedly hushed by Dumbeldore, and Charles came to himself with a gasp, pulling his hand away -- not nearly as quickly as he meant to.

"It's late," he said, and cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. "It's late. I should go to b -- I should go. We can finish the game tomorrow night."

Erik's face was unreadable -- disappointed? resigned? rattled? -- but he said, "All right."

Charles saw himself out, leaving the chessboard where it was -- and sank to the floor as soon as there was a door safely between him and Erik, knees to his chest.

 _Deep breaths. There's a lad._

And after all, it wasn't like he hadn't already known he would die still in love with Erik. This didn't change a thing.

Tears prickled in his eyes, and Charles pressed them to his knees, dragging in a breath that threatened to become a sob.

Because it really didn't change a thing.

\---

 

They did finish their chess game the next night, and started another which had to be finished the night after that, and before they knew it playing chess after dinner was simply what they did. They went sometimes to Erik's room, sometimes to Charles's -- Erik tried to steer toward his own as often as possible, because Raven tended to pop into Charles's without warning (apparently Charles didn't believe in making his sister knock) and spend the evening sprawled casually on the sofa, grading papers, loudly chewing pistachios and glaring at Erik when Charles wasn't looking.

The chess games definitely helped with their public-interaction problems. They no longer fought much at the staff table, because why bother with the polite public argument when you could tear into each other so much more thoroughly in private?

And if the other teachers raised their eyebrows at exchanges like "I'll wait until we're alone later to show you how wrong you are about that," and "We might better go to your room tonight, then," well, that certainly didn't bother _Erik_. He wasn't trying to hide Charles; he'd learned his lesson on that subject.

He couldn't even pretend not to enjoy their fights, not even while they were happening. Few things improved his mood like turning Charles flushed and sputtering, his exasperation laced with helpless amusement -- even affection -- when Erik said something intentionally, blatantly irrational. More than once the conversation reached a point where, ten years ago, it would have dissolved into ridiculously frantic snogging, but Raven always managed to be there to put a damper on that.

Besides which, Charles seemed to be taking every precaution against letting something like the hand-kissing incident happen again, dodging even the most casual touches. Even when he'd had several drinks, which usually made him rather handsy, he only watched Erik with a wistfulness that he clearly thought he was hiding. He might talk and laugh with Erik, might watch wits with him, but he would not touch him.

With one notable exception.

Professor Shaw had caught up with Erik in the corridor after he and Charles parted ways after breakfast. "Settling in, then, Erik? Making friends among the faculty?"

"Er, yes, sir," Erik said, which was surprisingly true. He'd discovered that he got on particularly well with Charms Professor Frost, and Alex Summers, the former delinquent Charles had pity-hired as Hogwarts Groundskeeper -- but he suspected that was not what Shaw was concerned about.

He was right.

"Spending a lot of time with my dear deputy, I hear," Shaw said, his tone of polite interest belied by the cold irritation in his eyes.

"Yes, sir," Erik said, spine rigid. "I enjoy his company."

"I rather thought you had more class than that. He's well-suited to the grunt work of administration, but… Erik, the man is simply not in your league, in terms of intelligence or talent or -- anything, really. I fail to see how you can possibly benefit from the association."

Erik felt his hands clenching into fists as he fought contradictory impulses -- the first, to his own surprise, was the old urge to do as he'd done all through school and play along, then continue to see Charles regardless; the second was to put a fist right through Shaw's face and promise him worse if he ever spoke that way about Charles again.

"On the contrary, sir," he said, voice hard and a little hoarse, "I've always found Charles to be my equal or better in any area worth measuring. Perhaps you should look to your staff's _actions_ , more than their bloodlines, to evaluate their abilities."

Shaw looked so taken aback, Erik thought he might fall over. He didn't wait for the headmaster to recover, but brushed past with a curt nod.

He'd gone ten steps or so when he rounded a corner and nearly ran right over Charles.

It wasn't hard to guess whether he'd overheard the conversation, because he was staring at Erik in a sort of wondering delight. He pressed fingertips to Erik's chest and pushed. Startled, Erik made no resistance as Charles backed him through the nearest door, into the dimness of an empty classroom.

"Don't... don't attach too much significance to this, my friend," Charles said, a little breathlessly, "but it just wouldn't do not to reward that kind of behavior." He bounced up onto his toes, hands cradling Erik's face, and kissed him.

The kiss was quick and light -- almost delicate -- so much like their first that Erik could have sworn he smelled gingerbread and snow. He barely had time to kiss back before Charles withdrew -- but Erik was having none of that. Without consulting his higher thought processes at all, his arms pulled Charles tight to his chest and held him there, to be kissed _properly_ , hands dragging up his back, through his hair, _missed this missed you need you god Charles--_

There was a brief hesitation, then Charles arched into the kiss, a helpless, desperate sound rising from his throat, setting alight every nerve in Erik's body.

Then footsteps and voices thundered by outside the door. Charles started, pulled back, and was gone before Erik could speak.

For the rest of the day, Erik tried to keep the dazed grin off his face when the students were looking, but rather thought he failed.

 

It took him less than twelve hours to ruin everything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this story is suddenly a lot more serious.

Charles slammed the door so hard, the clock rattled against the wall, stained glass butterflies chiming.

"You almost called her a Mudblood. _In front of the entire school._ "

"But I _didn't_ , Charles. I didn't say it!"

"Oh, not _quite_ , and let's pretend anyone was fooled by the remarkably transparent word-switch--but it was still the first thing that came to your mind--leapt right to your tongue, like it's used to being there--"

"You have to admit I was provoked." He _was_ , blast it, that Imogen Cox would try the patience of Albus Dumbledore himself, and no teacher should have to put up with her back-talk in the middle of their dinner-- but it was the wrong thing to say and he knew it the moment the words slipped out.

"Don't you dare," Charles breathed, "try to blame an eleven-year-old girl for your lack of self-control." The cold rage in his eyes was an uncomfortable reminder of the train platform. "It's one thing for you to be ashamed of your Muggle-born friends in your personal life, but as a _teacher_ you--"

"I've never been ashamed of you, Charles!"

 _"Well, I'm ashamed of you!"_ Charles looked startled at his own outburst. Erik certainly was. "I was ashamed of you tonight, Erik. Ashamed for people to know we're friends, that I could be friends with someone who would say something like that."

 _"But I didn't say it!_ For heaven's sake, Charles, wait for me to commit a crime before you punish me for it!"

"It's not just the saying it, Erik, it's the _thinking_ it--"

"Oh, you're the thought police now?"

"--It's the letting it reflect in your treatment of the students, everyone can see that you favor the purebloods--"

"Be accurate, Charles, I favor the _Slytherins_. You might almost call it my job."

"You're not even taking this seriously. What you've just done to that child could have social ramifications for her from now until graduation, and you're trying to brush it off with jokes."

"I'm not--"

"I don't _understand_ you, Erik!" Charles was on the edge of tears. Erik felt sick. "How can you say something like--like standing up for me to Shaw this morning--and then turn around and do _this_? Do you have a split personality, or do you just forget, from time to time, that I'm just as Muggle-born as they are?"

"You're not _like_ them, Charles, you never were, I've never lumped you in with _them_ \--"

"Oh, haven't you?"

"Are we talking about things I didn't say tonight, or things I said but didn't mean ten years ago, because they're different conversations, Charles."

"I'm not at all sure they are, Erik." Charles rubbed his temples, as if fighting a headache, and he looked suddenly old, tired, fragile. "I can't believe I did this. I can't believe I let you get close to me again when I _knew_ you hadn't changed. I can't go through this again. I barely survived it the first time."

Erik felt cold panic tighten his throat. "Charles--"

"I think you should go, Erik."

Erik wet his lips, swallowed twice. "I'll… I'll talk to you tomorrow, then."

"No promises," Charles muttered.

Erik drifted uncertainly toward the door, paused with his hand on the knob, said desperately, "Charles, I love you."

Charles flinched, shuddering. "Please go," he whispered.

Erik left the room. But he didn't go to his own chambers, or the Slytherin common room, or the library, or the staff room, or any of the hundred places he could and should have gone. Instead he paced up and down the hallway outside Charles's door, snapping occasionally at particularly nosy-looking paintings as he passed.

Charles always tried to see the good in everyone, it blinded him, it kept him from _seeing_ how utterly worthless most Muggles were, how few of their wizard children managed to rise above their upbringing and their mixed genes. Charles would feel differently if he'd been at that orphanage with Erik--surrounded by petty, heartless, vicious Muggles who were perfectly willing to let a child suffer--out of malevolence or negligence or incompetence, the result was the same. The only thing that kept Erik going was the knowledge that he was _better_ than the awful people around him, that he could do things they'd never dream of, that he was a member of the superior species.

"Of course you are," Professor Shaw had said when he finally, finally tracked down the mysterious German student who had been registered for Hogwarts attendance and never showed. "You and I, Erik, all the witches and wizards, we are the next step in the evolution of mankind. We are the higher order, the fittest who will survive, and these others, these creatures of dirt? Just an obsolete model, tottering on until the batteries run out. Not worth the time it takes to revenge yourself on them. Now go get your things, so we can go--back to your own people, back to the world where you belong."

There had to be a way to make Charles understand. It was probably too much to hope that Charles would ever _agree_ , but Erik had to make him see that he wasn't a monster and he wasn't a bigot--he knew that not all Muggle-borns were worthless, _he was in love with one_ for heaven's sake, he was always _glad_ to find a Muggle-born student who was worth teaching, and he had indeed found several such. He just knew better than to expect it as a general thing.

Erik's legs were growing tired, his head fuzzy with the need to sleep, but he couldn't quite bear to go back to his cold, empty room. That would be giving up. As long as he was right here, a single movement away from opening Charles's door, he could pretend the conversation wasn't over. It was foolish and he knew it, but it was all he had.

Erik sat down with his back to the door, pulling his robes tight around him in the drafty corridor, and let his eyes fall closed, just for a moment.

 

"Erik?"

The astonished voice jerked him awake, disoriented and sore and cold, blinked stupidly up at--Moira? What in the world--?

"What time is it?" he muttered.

"I don't know. Dawn. Barely dawn." Moira's voice seemed brittle, shaky, and her face was blotchy with tears. "What are you doing here? Is Charles all right?"

"Yes, he's fine." Erik's brain began to function again, and he got to his feet, eyeing Moira with growing alarm. Moira always looked neat and smooth and together, the picture of competence and calm. Now her hair was tangled, her clothes muddy and askew, and her hands were definitely shaking. "Moira, what's wrong?"

"I need Charles."

Erik stepped aside to let her knock. Her first tentative taps quickly gave way to frantic pounding, as if she'd finally found an outlet for her distress and was helpless to resist it. Erik wondered uneasily if he should intervene before she harmed herself. Moira was frequently annoying, but he still didn't like seeing her like this.

The door opened at last, revealing a rumpled, bleary, gasping Charles, clearly frightened awake. "Moira? What's happened, what's wrong, love-- _Erik?_ What--"

"He was already here, I don't know," Moira said. "Charles, I need you to--to come out to the l-lake, she's in the lake. Poor Dolly found her--oh, Dolly, left her in my room, mustn't forget her there--poor thing--oh, Charles--" She covered her face in her hands, tears spilling behind them.

"Moira." Charles, thoroughly awake now, gripped her by the shoulder. "Moira, my friend, I need you to talk to me. _Who_ is in the lake?"

"Imogen Cox." Moira gulped, wiped frantically at her face. "Imogen Cox is dead."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild flashback appears! Dropped in gracelessly, I know, but I couldn't come up with a better place to put it. Next chapter will pick back up with the main story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ertrunkenen Maus = drowned mouse

"Blimey, is that a Lehnsherr wand?"

Erik could barely hear his fellow Beater, Higgs, over the December wind in his ears, but well enough to lift his wand and grin. "My name's Lehnsherr, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, I guess, I just hadn't thought…" Higgs slowed his broom, sidled it up to Erik's. "Blimey," he repeated, eyes traveling the glossy length of the wood, to the gold-encircled L on the bottom of the handle. "My dad says Mr. Ollivander himself wishes he had a Lehnsherr wand."

"What's with the not-practicing, chaps?" came the impatient voice of their team captain, a brusque sixth-year named Lyman, and another broom came into slow orbit around Erik's.

Erik wasn't at all sure you could call this Quidditch practice, not when their brooms had wandered so far from the Quidditch pitch that the waters of the lake now glinted below, and pursuit of the balls had turned into aiming various spells at them instead. But it didn't do to argue with Lyman, and it certainly didn't do for the skinny second-year Beater to argue with the team captain. "Sorry, sir," Erik said, and moved to put his wand away.

"That's a real Lehnsherr wand," Higgs said excitedly to Lyman. "Must have been one of the last ones they made, wouldn't you say? Here, now, Lenny, can I hold it, just for a second?"

Erik truly despised being called Lenny. It sounded like something you'd call a pet rodent. But in the nearly four months he'd been on the team, he hadn't worked up the nerve to say anything. The other Quidditch boys -- it happened to be all boys this year -- were finally starting to include him in some of the joking and talking and messing about, and he wasn't going to jeopardize that.

With that in mind, Erik fought through his instinctive resistance to the idea of handing over his wand. Higgs wasn't going to hurt it. He just wanted to _admire_ it, that was a good thing, right? "Careful with it," he couldn't help saying. "It's, um. It's one of a kind, you know." _It's all I have left of my parents_ was not the sort of thing you said in casual conversation.

"Would you feel that?" Higgs breathed, waving the wand gently. "It just _hums_ , don't it? You can feel the magic just pouring through. Green with envy, Lehnsherr, that's what I am. Hefty thing, too," he leered, "you know what they say about a man's wand--"

"What do they say about a girl's, then, I wonder?" Lyman muttered. "Here, let me see it." He reached out, and Higgs obliged--

Just then a piercing whistle split the air, and all three boys jumped nearly off their broomsticks.

"Quidditch practice is to take place _on the Quidditch pitch_ and _only_ on the Quidditch pitch, as you well know, Mr. Lyman!" came Professor McGonagall's furious voice. "Get yourself and your players back where you belong immediately!"

"Yes, Headmistress," Lyman called back, as meekly as he could at that volume. "Higgs, give him back his... Higgs?"

Higgs was staring in ashen horror at the glittering water below, his hands empty.

 

They searched for an hour, Professor McGonagall assisting, before she made them go in to dinner.

"You'll not find it now, with night coming in," she said, patting Erik's shoulder with brusque sympathy. "And it's far too cold to risk falling in the water. Don't lose heart, lad, maybe it'll wash up in a day or two. I'm afraid that's your only hope now; if a Summoning Charm was going to snag it, it would have done it by now. Hard to make these things work when you don't know quite where the item is, you know. Go on in, boys, get some warm food in you before Slytherin has to play with a team of ice statues!"

Erik went in to dinner, and stared at his plate without seeing his food or hearing Higgs's miserable apologies.

He lay in bed for hours, listening to his dorm-mates' snores, feeling dry and hollow and stunned. His wand. _His wand_ , that he and his mother and father had made together, their hands guiding his, the wand they vowed would serve him faithfully all his life -- and he'd lost it.

 _No, I bloody well have not._ Anger sparked in his chest, far preferable to the empty despair. Erik let it drive him out of bed, into his warmest clothes, and out the window on his broomstick.

He grabbed Higgs's wand on the way.

 

Charles was hopeless on a broomstick, so hopeless that he'd been laughed out of Quidditch try-outs almost before he made it off the ground. He didn't care so very much about playing Quidditch, but he did care about mastering so basic a wizarding skill, so he jumped at the chance when Moira MacTaggert, fourth-year Hufflepuff Chaser, offered to show him a few tips. He insisted, however, that their sessions take place after dark, where no one could see to laugh at him. It was, perhaps, a measure of his ineptitude that Moira didn't argue.

"You are improving, you really are," Moira said through chattering teeth as they drifted over the grounds, Charles's flight path only slightly parabolic and to the right.

"Your lies are kind, but unnecessary," Charles said with a resigned smile. "Let's go in before we both freeze, what were you thinking, letting me drag you out on a night like this?"

"Well, you're just so _pitiful_ , Charles, I can't help--"

"Hold up." Charles brought his broom to a stop on only the second try, staring down at the dark figure interrupting the gleam of moonlight on the surface of the lake. "There's someone down there. Look! What does he think he's doing?"

"I don't see anyone," Moira said, "but you're the one with the enchanted glasses, so I'll take your word."

Charles pushed the aforesaid glasses -- huge clunky things, they kept slipping down his nose, which whatever his mother said was _not_ adorable -- back into place, and squinted down at the mysterious broom-rider. The enchantment on his spectacles made the night bright for him, but it didn't bring the figure's face into focus. Charles started dropping down toward the lake, Moira following uneasily.

The figure was skimming just above the surface of the water, wand extended, and the words _Accio wand!_ drifted on the air, over and over. The figure circled and came back the other direction, face now toward the light.

"That's Erik Lehnsherr," Moira said in surprise. "One of the Slytherin Beaters."

"The tall German boy who gets picked on so much?" But always stood straight through it all, face impassive, as if he had been through worse and it had failed to impress him. Charles, who knew he made an all-too-satisfyingly _reactive_ bullying victim, couldn’t help envying the boy's quiet strength and pride. Not that they ran in the same circles at all, but a boy could see things if he kept his eyes open.

 _"Accio wand!"_ Erik called again, which Charles thought quite strange since he was holding his wand already, wasn't he? But to his surprise the surface of the lake began to wobble, and Erik let out a whoop of joy as the tip of a wand broke the water.

With a tentacle attached.

Erik stared at it a moment, looking as boggled as Charles felt, and with his faltering concentration, the spell lost its grip on the wand. The tentacle pulled it back into the water.

 _"Nein!"_ Erik yelped, and tumbled off his broom after it.

Charles said some words he'd never actually said out loud before and steered his broom downward as fast as he could.

He circled frantically over the surface for a few moments, trying to spot Erik's head in the churning water, but it was nowhere to be seen. The squid -- it had to be the baby squid everyone'd been talking about -- had dragged him under.

There! The water broke over Erik's face for just a moment, all gasping and teeth, one hand flailing--Charles grabbed it--

\--and was yanked from his broom when the squid pulled down again.

The water was unbelievably cold, and Charles narrowly avoided a shocked inhalation that would have drowned him on the spot. He snapped his arms around Erik and kicked, tried to pull them upward, but Erik wasn't budging, in fact they were both being dragged further into the water. Was the baby squid _trying_ to drown them? Charles hadn't thought the creatures malicious--

No, he realized, the squid wasn't dragging _them_ at all, only the wand, which Erik was clutching with a white-knuckle grip.

Losing your wand was awful, Charles understood that. It was not, however, as awful as drowning. He dug his fingernails hard into Erik's arms, trying to make him let go -- succeeded with one arm, which made it possible for him to get their heads above water for a few breaths -- long enough to shout, "Let it go, Erik! You've got to let it go!" before they were pulled under again.

Charles realized he was facing quite a choice. If Erik insisted on letting the squid drown him, would Charles let go of him, let him die and save himself? Could he do that?

Well, not yet, anyway. Though it was hard with his fingers going numb, he resumed digging and clawing at Erik's arms, heedless of the other boy's efforts to buck him off.

Was the enchantment on his glasses wearing off? Or was his vision blacking out from the lack of air?

Ah. Definitely blacking out. As if from a great distance, he watched as Erik finally let the wand pull from his fingers, and started kicking for the surface, one hand reaching back to make sure Charles came along.

Breaking the surface was like being slapped in the face with an iceberg. Charles gasped, choked, nearly went under again before he could convince his stiff, numb limbs to tread water. Erik was swearing steadily in German -- well, Charles assumed they were swear words, they certainly had that intent behind them.

 _"Dummkopf! Idiot!_ Where did you _come_ from? What are you _doing_?"

"Saving your life," Charles gasped. "You're welcome. Moira! Over here!"

A terrified Moira, sputtering anger and relief, started hauling their abandoned broomsticks over the water toward them.

"My name's Charles Xavier." His teeth were chattering almost too hard to be understood. He held out a hand to shake, but Erik just looked at it as if it were from another planet. In the artificial brightness of his glasses, Charles could clearly see that Erik's lips were blue.

"Onto your brooms, you two idiots, before you both freeze!" Moira hissed, and they tried to comply, stiff and shivering near to convulsions. Moira half-hauled Charles onto his broom; he turned and pulled Erik up in front of him.

"You'd b-better drive, Erik," he bit out between shivers, "I'm t-terrible at it when I'm _not_ half-frozen. Moira, make sure Erik's broom f-follows us?"

Figuring that it was a bit late in the day for shyness, and that the boy owed him one anyway, Charles wrapped his arms tight around Erik's waist and burrowed into his back. Not that Erik was any warmer than Charles himself, but he blocked the wind as they made their dripping, shivering way back to the castle. The breeze of their movement was like a hundred knives.

"What were you doing out here? Why did you dive in after me?" Erik growled.

"Flying practice. And you were obviously going to die if I didn't."

"I would have been fine! _You_ were the one losing consciousness! And what's it to you, anyway, if I drown?"

Charles blinked. "I happen to be a human being. We care about things like that."

Moira said, "You should both go to the hospital wing--"

"No!" Erik snapped.

"I think we're all right, Moira," Charles said, clenching his teeth so he could talk without chattering. "We just need to warm up. All we need is a fire. And some blankets. And fresh clothes. And maybe some cocoa."

 _Finally_ they arrived at the window to Charles's dormitory. Erik balked at the idea of coming inside.

"Where else are you going to go, my friend?" Charles said impatiently. "You're a Slytherin, right? Your common room could keep meat from spoiling. Get yourself in here and stop being stupid."

Erik climbed through the window.

Charles's dorm-mates slept like the dead, as he'd had opportunity to discover, so he made only perfunctory attempts at quiet as he dug out dry clothes and as many blankets as he could lay hands on, even the ones Stephen Clearwater had kicked to the bottom of his bed.

"Well, go on, then," he said, in the middle of peeling off his own sodden shirt, when he saw that Erik was just staring at the dry sweater and trousers Charles had tossed him. "You'll never get warm with those wet clothes on. Go on, you shy maiden, I promise I won't look!" He turned his back and changed his clothes as quickly as his nerveless, shaking fingers would let him. He would normally have been just as reticent as Erik, if not more, but they simply hadn't the time for foolishness. Not with Erik's lips already blue. "All right, they keep a fire in the common room all night. Bundle up and get as close to it as you can without igniting yourself. It's that way." He piled Erik's arms with blankets and shoved him toward the door. "I'll be right there. Go on!"

 

Erik wasn't quite sure he was awake. Perhaps this was all a hallucination while he drowned, his dying brain concocting the most comforting scenario it could manage -- letting him believe he was rescued from the water and bundled by the fire and being bossed about by a tiny, ridiculous, completely illogical _ertrunkenen Maus_ of a boy who seemed to think they were friends now.

Erik was still shivering, but he could feel his hands again by the time Charles settled onto the hearth beside him, a steaming mug in his hands. He took a long swallow, which fogged his enormous glasses, and then passed the mug to Erik.

"Magical self-heating, self-filling cocoa mug," Charles said with a blissful smile. "Heavenly. It'll stay full as long as we need it, but there's only the one so we'll have to share."

Erik took a hesitant sip, then a deeper one. The cocoa was _amazing_. His third swallow nearly emptied the mug. He watched it cheerily refill itself, hands wrapped around the warm ceramic, while Charles arranged his blankets and wiped his glasses on a hem.

"How are you even at Hogwarts?" Erik blurted. "Don't you have to be eleven years old?"

"I'm twelve," Charles said stiffly, repossessing the mug. "Second year, same as you. You're just bigger than everybody because you started a year late."

"Know everything about me, do you? _That's_ not creepy at all."

 _"I_ keep my eyes open and pay attention. You're Erik Lehnsherr, of _the_ Lehnsherrs, thirteen years old, orphaned, from Germany, brought over by Professor Shaw, Slytherin, good student, pretty good Beater, socially inept, and tonight you lost your wand in the lake. Drink some more cocoa, you're still shivering. _I_ am Charles Xavier, Muggle-born, Ravenclaw, good at Charms, terrible on a broom, also socially inept, and tonight I saved your life. Now are we balanced on the information scale?"

Erik privately doubted this boy was balanced on any scale at all, but he only nodded and drank his cocoa. "Muggle-born?"

Charles snorted. "Oh, don't go all Slytherin on me, Erik, you're better than that. Now tell me why this silly wand was worth drowning for."

"It wasn't a silly wand." Erik felt his throat clench, swallowed more cocoa. "It was the wand my parents made me, we made it together, and it -- it was all I had left of them -- all that was left of my family and it's gone now--" Hot tears fought free of his eyes, to his horror, burning trails down his face. "It's some squid's new toy and it's like, it's like losing them all over again, as long as I had my wand I had a part of them with me and now I'm alone, now I'm all alone." He wiped frantically at his cheeks, looking anywhere but at the boy who was witnessing this breakdown.

But Charles didn't laugh or flinch in embarrassment, just leaned warm against Erik's side, throwing one blanket-draped arm around his shoulders. "No, you're not, Erik. You're not alone."

Erik dared a glance at those brilliant, earnest blue eyes behind their clunky black frames. And Charles was ridiculous and Muggle-born and very possibly an idiot and Erik wasn't at all sure he ought to be friends with that sort. But he put his arm around Charles anyway, and said, "Yeah, okay. Maybe not."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're unusually sensitive to crime-scene-type imagery or dead children, this may not be a great chapter for you.

"Imogen Cox is dead."

Erik actually staggered, catching hold of the doorframe to stay upright.

Charles just stared, first at Moira, then at Erik.

Apparating was impossible on Hogwarts grounds, and that would have been the only way to get far enough away from the look in Charles's eyes -- pain and disbelief and the first glimmerings of _accusation_.

 _This is not my fault, Charles, this is_ not my fault!

"Right," Charles said, unsteadily, and then more firmly, "Right then. Erik, my friend, I need you to go wake Raven and send her to sit with Dolly. Then go fetch the headmaster. Moira and I will be at the lake. And Erik," he grabbed Erik's arm as he turned to go, "do _not_ let Shaw talk to Dolly. That man has no business anywhere near a traumatized child."

"I entirely agree."

Erik had to ask directions from the portraits before he found his way to Raven's room. She came to the door in a fluffy white robe, frowning in sleepy confusion that quickly gave way to grief and anger.

"And are you proud of yourself?" she hissed, looking about half a thought from hitting him in the face. "How does it feel to know you drove an eleven-year-old girl to suicide?"

"There are so many baseless assumptions in that sentence that I don't know where to start correcting them." Erik kept his voice cold and even. He wasn't here to defend himself to Raven. "Being angry at me isn't going to help Miss Dursley, which is your job right now. I suggest you get to it."

Shaw's room he found on his own, using the Teacher's Emergency Protocol password to get into the Headmaster's Tower. He raised his fist to knock on the chamber door, and lowered it again when he realized it was shaking.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Lehnsherr. It's never wise to have dealings with Shaw with your faculties compromised._

This was not his fault. It was _not_. They knew literally _nothing_ yet about the circumstances of the girl's death. Blame could be cast when there was some evidence of where it belonged.

He took a deep breath and prepared to rap on the door, only for it to swing open before him.

"Erik?" Shaw was dressed for the day, if a little tired-looking, his brow furrowed with concern. "So that was you with the emergency password? Is something wrong?"

The words stuck in Erik's throat for a moment, but he forced them out. "There's been a death among the students, sir."

"Great Merlin. Who? How?"

"Imogen Cox, sir. I don't know the details, only that she was found in the lake. Moira and Charles are there now."

"Of course. Good old Charles, always one step ahead of me," Shaw said drily. He turned to pull on a thick outer-robe and overshoes.

 _Trust Shaw to worry about his shoes at a time like this._

It was a long walk from the Headmaster's Tower down to the lake. Shaw said nothing -- asked no questions, made no remarks. His steps did not seem shaky, like Moira's, or leaden, like Erik's own. If forced to describe them, Erik might have called them _springy_. Of course, Shaw had always been a little... off, socially. Conversation often seemed to be something he had to calculate ahead of time, a dance with the moves memorized but not _felt_. His smiles never quite reached his eyes.

In a way, it was restful. You never had to worry much about hurting Shaw's feelings. That presupposed he had some.

\---

Imogen had been tall for her age, but she seemed tiny now, tangled in the muddy weeds at the edge of the lake. Tiny and fragile -- ironic, since nothing could hurt her now.

It had seemed so important that he get here quickly, but now that Charles had arrived, he had no idea what to do. What vital task were he and Moira in such a hurry to perform? They couldn't move her or even cover her -- they had to assume this was a crime scene until informed otherwise. All they could do was stand here, shivering, watching the stark contrast between their own frosting breath and Imogen's utter lack of it.

Maybe standing here was enough. Maybe their vital task was simply to keep her company out here in the grey dawn. So she wouldn't be alone.

Charles was cold enough, his winter robes thrown over thin pajamas, but Moira, huddled in a simple houserobe and shawl, was shaking so hard Charles fancied he could hear her bones rattle. Not all, perhaps, a result of the cold. She hadn't looked away from Imogen's body since they came within sight of it.

Charles could not come up with a single comforting or useful thing to say, so he merely pulled her toward him and tucked her inside his own robe, her teeth chattering against his collarbone.

"Erik was with me last night," he heard his own voice saying, apropos of nothing. "He had nothing to do with this."

"He was asleep outside your door," Moira said dully. "And you had no idea he was there. Don't lie to me, Charles. Save it for the Patrol."

"You're just jealous," Charles said lightly, which was mind-bogglingly inappropriate but he was willing to try anything to put some life back in Moira's eyes.

It worked, to the extent that something almost resembling a laugh huffed against his shoulder. "Don't flatter yourself," she muttered. "Sean Cassidy's ten times the kisser you were."

"That wouldn't be difficult," he said ruefully. Their brief courtship, when he first began teaching at Hogwarts, had ended with the discovery that, as much as they enjoyed each other's company, they had no physical spark whatsoever. Kissing Moira was like kissing Raven. Worse, frankly.

Which made it blackly hilarious to see Erik's spine go rigid with jealousy when he topped the rise and saw them huddled together. Charles's amusement flickered quickly out, however, at the sight of Shaw beside him, and the reminder of why they were here.

"Poor child," Shaw said gravely as he and Erik came to a stop beside them on the muddy bank. "Such a waste. Erik, you've the strongest back here. Pick her up and bring her to the hospital wing; there's a cold-room there where we can keep the body until it's claimed. Does anyone have something to wrap her in?"

They stared at him. Charles was the first to find his voice.

"Sir, I don't think we should move her until the Patrol--"

"Good heavens, Charles, do you really think we need the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol? It's fairly obvious what happened. Patrol involvement would only make things more painful for everyone. For the good of the school, we need to keep this... situation as calm and quiet as possible. Go on, Erik."

Shaw was headmaster; his word was law here. Charles could only watch in mute protest as Erik gathered Imogen's body into Moira's surrendered shawl and lifted her, grotesquely stiff and dripping. Erik's face was stony, unreadable, but his movements were unexpectedly gentle, almost tender.

"We'll cancel classes for today, I suppose," Shaw said, leading the way back to the school. "The students will be useless anyway, with something like this to gossip about. Charles, take care of that for me?"

"Of course, sir." Charles managed to keep his rage mostly out of his voice. "I can speak to the girl's parents, as well."

"No, no, I should do that myself," Shaw said.

 _Bugger of a time for you to remember your duties_ , Charles thought. Not that he _wanted_ to tell a couple who had entrusted their child to Hogwarts less than two months ago that she was never coming home -- but it ought to be done by someone who could be bothered to _care_. Anyone, basically, but Shaw, who was humming a little tune under his breath as they walked.

"Who found the body?" Shaw asked suddenly. "You, Moira?"

"No, sir, it was Dolly Dursley," Moira said hesitantly. "They were close friends, you know, from the same dorm, and when Imogen never came to bed last night, she grew worried. Went looking for her first thing this morning, and... well."

"Came to you first, of course, as her Head of House," Shaw murmured. "And you went to Charles, not me, how interesting. I wonder how Erik came to be involved? I don't suppose it matters. I will, of course, need to speak to Miss Dursley as soon as we have Miss Cox settled."

'Settling' Imogen consisted of laying her on a table in the cold-room of the hospital wing, a place used for the storage of certain medicines and herbs and, yes, bodies -- Imogen was not the first student to die during Hogwarts's vast history. Madam Pomfrey, the ancient (but still quite lively) school nurse, hovered in the background, pale and damp-eyed. No students, thank God, had been out and about in the corridors yet as they passed.

After setting her down, Erik made an attempt at rearranging the shawl around the girl, as if more comfortably. It didn't help.

"Do get her cleaned up for us, Madam Pomfrey," Shaw said. "I'm sure her parents will be here as soon as they can, we'd hate for them to find mud in her hair." It might have been a sensitive, thoughtful thing to say, from someone else; from Shaw, it merely sounded business-like, a means of avoiding embarrassment. Like making the bed before having company over. "Charles, you go ahead and make the announcements, I'm sure the children will be trickling into the Great Hall for breakfast by the time you get there. Moira, take me to wherever you've stashed Miss Dursley."

Helpless, Charles tried to signal Moira -- probably unnecessarily -- not to leave Dolly alone with Shaw's appalling bedside manner, but it was Erik who caught his eye and gave a reassuring nod as he followed Shaw out of the room. Charles couldn't imagine _Erik's_ presence would be much of a comfort to the girl, but he still appreciated the thought.

He should be properly dressed, Charles thought, before speaking to the students. He squeezed Madam Pomfrey's shoulder, for whatever comfort that might bring, and set off for his rooms, trying not to look back at the dead child on the table.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys find a big, fat clue.

Erik expected to find Dolly Dursley a weeping, hysterical mess, as she had been when frightened by the snake painting. He couldn't have blamed her much for it, this time. And weeping she was, but it was a silent, intermittent flow of tears; she seemed mostly unaware of them, sitting straight and still next to Raven on Moira's sofa. Her body moved in long, slow shudders, as if in the last stages of hypothermia, despite the layers of coat and blanket wrapped around her, the roaring fire, and the cup of tea steaming in her hands. She barely looked up as they entered the room.

Moira hurried to seat herself on Dolly's other side; Shaw, perforce, took the armchair, pulling it directly into Dolly's line of sight. Erik remained standing.

"Miss Dursley," Shaw said.

"She's in no shape to talk," Raven said, eyes flashing yellow.

"Nevertheless, there are things I must ask her. Miss Dursley, I need you to look at me."

The girl drew in a long, shaky breath, then flicked her eyes up to Shaw's face.

"That's better," he said with one of his peculiar mouth-only smiles. "Dolly, I need you to tell me exactly what happened this morning."

Her voice dull and halting, Dolly told them more or less what Moira had said already; that Imogen had never come to bed, Dolly had gone searching for her, first around the castle and then on the grounds.

"What made you go to the lake?" Shaw asked.

She shrugged. "She had to be somewhere. I hadn't looked there yet."

"You didn't suspect, then, that she may have drowned herself?"

Dolly truly met Shaw's eyes for the first time, face hard. "She didn't drown herself."

Shaw frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Why in the world would she do that? Because a mean teacher called her a nasty name?" Her eyes flicked to Erik and back. "She'd had worse from her mum a hundred times. Imogen had more spine than that. More spine than anybody."

"Imogen was a very troubled girl," Shaw said, with his own brand of gentleness. "She had many reasons to be... dissatisfied with her life."

"Well, she weren't. Dissatisfied, I mean. She loved it here, she loved learning magic, finally being something _special_. She was happier here than she'd ever been in her life, she told me that." She looked at Erik. "You think she'd kill herself over _you_? You was like a bee-sting, she said, and she was figuring out ways to swat you."

"Beg your pardon?" Erik said, startled.

Dolly's face contorted--grief tainting the memory of amusement. "She was thinking of ways to get back at you. She had some good ideas, too." She glared at Shaw. "None of them involved drowning herself."

"Well, obviously something changed--"

"And why would she go out to the lake to kill herself, anyway? All she had to do was open a window and step out. Eight story drop from the dormitory woulda done it for sure. Why bother sneaking out to the lake, to die slow and cold?" She was crying again now; Moira squeezed her hand, made soothing sounds.

"We'll never know what went through her mind, I'm sure," Shaw said. "Dolly, I need you tell me what you saw, what you observed, when you found the body. Anything unusual?"

"More unusual than my best friend's dead body? No, sir," Dolly said bitterly. "Just... the water and the sun coming up and... Imogen in the mud. No one else about."

"Any other footprints in the mud, perhaps?"

"No." That made Shaw look smug; he opened his mouth, perhaps to point out that if someone else had taken Imogen to the lake, they would have left footprints, but Erik cut in.

"When did you last see Imogen?" he asked, ignoring Shaw annoyed glance.

Dolly wiped her face, swallowed. "After dinner, we went back to the dorm and talked a while -- planning revenge, like I said. Then I had to go to Professor Frost for my tutoring session. When I came back, she was gone. I thought it was odd but she wants to be alone sometimes. I didn't _really_ realize anything was wrong until I woke up this morning and her bed was still made." The tears started up again. "Maybe if I'd gone to look for her sooner..."

Raven hugged her close, which she didn't resist. It was obvious that her brittle composure was reaching its limit.

"I think we've learned everything we can from Miss Dursley, Headmaster," Erik murmured.

"Yes, quite." Shaw stood, dusted off his hands. "MacTaggert, Darkholme, I trust you'll tend to the girl? I have a great deal to do, notifications to make..."

Moira nodded impatiently, and Shaw took his leave.

After a moment's hesitation, Erik moved to follow, but Dolly's voice stopped him before he reached the door.

"Do you feel guilty, Professor Lehnsherr?" she asked.

He ran a hand through his hair and said softly, "Yes."

"Good. You ought to, for the things you said to her. But don't bother feeling like you killed her. I promise you, she didn't consider _nothing_ you said to be worth dying over."

Erik watched her a moment, letting her glare seep into him, then gave a stiff nod and let the door close between them.

\--

Hogwarts was a quiet place that day, despite the unexpected break from classes. Some students ran and played, but most, even those who hadn't known the dead girl, were subdued, unsettled.

Scorpius Malfoy, Erik mused, was unsettled, too, or he wouldn't have bothered with the bravado. In the last two months, he had settled into a little constellation of friends, and was holding court with them now in the Slytherin common room as Erik entered. His movements were nervous and jerky, his smile too wide--a little boy testing what he could get away with.

"--not that I mind the free day, you understand," he was saying, "but it is an awful lot of fuss over a dead Mudblood. Are we really expected to be sad that--"

A loud _snap_ echoed through the room, and though Malfoy's mouth kept moving for a few startled seconds, no sound came out.

Erik calmly put his wand away, watching Malfoy figure out that his voice would no longer work. He stared at Erik in bewilderment.

"I don't tolerate that kind of language," Erik said. "Or the sentiment behind it. A child is dead, and yes, Malfoy, I expect you and every other decent human being to be sad about it."

Wide-eyed, the boy tried again to speak. Erik released the spell with a gesture.

"But sir," Malfoy stammered, " _you_ called her a Mu--you said it yourself last night--"

Erik tried to suppress a flush of shame. "I lost my temper last night. And I did _not_ \-- quite -- use the word. I corrected myself, however inadequately, because I knew I was doing something wrong and unkind. I expect you to do the same. Correct yourself."

Malfoy stammered a bit more as he realized a response was actually expected of him. "I--I--How, sir? What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to repeat after me. 'The girl was Muggle-born, and I may not have personally liked her. That doesn't mean she deserved to die.'"

Malfoy swallowed. "The girl was Muggle-born, and I may not have personally liked her. That doesn't mean she deserved to die."

Erik let his voice soften, just a shade. "Much better." He cast his gaze around the other knots of students in the common room, all now staring unabashedly. "I came here to tell you that Professors Xavier and Darkholme are keeping extra office hours tonight, for any students who need to speak to someone about today's events. I didn't realize I would also be required to instruct you in the tenets of basic human compassion. Does anyone feel they need further instruction on this topic?"

Silence.

"Excellent." Erik turned and swept out of the common room.

Halfway up the stairs, far out of the students' sight, he stopped to lean against a windowsill and rake fingers through his hair.

It was unnerving in the extreme to see how eagerly Scorpius followed his example. Since facing his very first classroom, Erik had clung to intimidation and the trappings of authority to maintain control of his students. This was the first hour in which he had felt he held any true power over them. It was not reassuring; it was terrifying. Seeing his attitudes reflected in a still-moldable mind like Malfoy's was strangely sickening, no matter how fervently he argued their justification to Charles. What did it mean, exactly, that Erik would rather see his favorite students grow up to be like the man he most often disagreed with?

\--

After a very long evening with distressed students, Charles sent a message to the kitchen to have a late dinner brought to his room for himself and Raven. Privately, he doubted he would be able to force much down, but he intended to get a meal into his sister if he could.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Charles began counting the minutes before Erik knocked.

Three and a half.

"Don't, Charles," Raven said, and he knew she was probably right. But he opened the door anyway.

Erik looked bad, drawn and sleepless. "Can we talk, Charles?"

"Come on in. You can hang your robe there, if you like." Charles had been glad to divest himself of his own teacher's attire, leaving only the Muggle-style slacks and cardigan beneath. He could pretend to be just Charles for a bit, instead of Professor Xavier. "Have you eaten?"

Erik waved a hand in a negating gesture that Charles, still helplessly fluent in the language of Erik's hands, translated into _no, but I don't intend to_.

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" Raven said, her mouth set in a snarl that showed the fangs she'd metamorphed. "Actually, I take that back, I guess as long as you're here with us you can't be killing any more students—"

"Raven," Charles snapped.

Erik didn't let on that Raven existed, looking only at Charles. "I didn't do this, Charles. Tell me you believe me."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, weary. "Erik, my opinion of you may not be as high as you feel it should be, but I don't believe you would drown a little girl."

"But I didn't drive her to it, either. Surely Raven told you what Dolly said."

"She did. Unfortunately, because a child--or an adult--believes something does not make it true." Charles turned away, tipping a few swallows from the just-opened wine bottle into his glass.

"Imogen Cox was a lot of things," Erik said, taking the glass intended for Raven and filling it to the brim. "But she was neither stupid nor weak."

"And only stupid, weak people kill themselves?" Raven snatched the glass from his hand. "That's not how it works, Erik."

Erik glared, took Charles's glass and emptied it in one swallow.

"What do you propose happened instead?" Charles said as Erik refilled the glass.

"I don't know. Some kind of accident. Some hare-brained scheme gone wrong. She was planning revenge against me, you know." Eyes distant, he breathed a half-laugh, quickly drowned in wine. "Maybe we would have eventually gotten along after all."

"Of _course_ that would be the way to your heart," Raven muttered.

"We'll never know, I guess," Charles said, voice hard, "since our dear headmaster elected not to investigate in any way." He reclaimed his glass and tossed back what remained in it, handed it back to Erik for a refill.

"That's his decision, not much we can do about it," Erik said, and Raven snorted.

"Yes, I'm sure it just tears you up that your mentor made dead certain you could never be implicated in the death you caused."

"I'm telling you I had nothing to _do_ with it, or with Shaw's decision either--I'm sure he was only thinking of sparing the girl's parents--"

"Oh, yes, doesn't that sound like Sebastian Shaw, taking thought for everyone's _feelings_ \--"

Charles closed his eyes as if to block out the argument, blindly took the refilled glass from Erik's hand, trying not to notice their fingers brushing together. Took a long swallow. Of course he didn't want to believe Erik's words had driven a child to suicide, but frankly he wasn't sure it mattered--Erik had said something that could plausibly provoke that reaction. Whether it actually had, this time, seemed almost irrelevant.

Well, relevant in one sense at least--that if Imogen hadn't killed herself, then someone else had.

A knock on the door stopped Erik and Raven's escalating argument in its tracks and nearly startled Charles into dropping the glass. He pushed it into Erik's hand as he went to the door.

It was Dolly Dursley, still in her day clothes, wan and frail-looking. She frowned at the sight of Erik in the room, but spoke anyway.

"Sorry to disturb you, Professor Xavier. I... I tried to... I wanted to say goodbye to Imogen--her mother's coming to get her tomorrow--but I couldn't get in, the cold-room's sealed off. Can you let me in?"

Charles sank to one knee in front of the girl, eye-level. "Dolly, are you sure you want to do this? Your friend isn't in there, love. She's gone on. All you'll be doing now is giving yourself a memory of her cold on a table. Is that how you want to remember her?"

Dolly swallowed. "I'd rather remember her cold on a table, laid out clean and straight, than tangled in the weeds and mud. And this is my only chance to say goodbye."

Charles bit his lip and nodded. "I'll take you, then. Would you like Professor Darkholme to come?"

Dolly glanced past Charles at Raven and nodded.

No one invited Erik, but he followed them anyway.

 

"Have you spoken to your parents, Dolly?" Charles asked as they made their way through the night-dimmed corridors.

"Yes, sir. They want me to come home, but I told them I'd rather stay."

"Why would you rather stay?" Charles would have thought a retreat to the comfort of home and family would be more than welcome.

"I'm afraid if I go home, they won't let me come back," Dolly said. "My uncle Harry had to work for months to talk them into letting me come to Hogwarts at all. When Grandmum hears about this she'll go off like a firework. I can't let them keep me away. I've just started to learn magic, I don't want to stop." She wrapped her arms around her miserably.

Charles touched her shoulder. "I'll do everything I can to see that doesn't happen, Dolly. I'm sure your uncle Harry will, too." Surely she didn't mean _that_ Harry, there were lots of Harrys in the wizarding world... though it might explain why the name Dursley kept nagging at his mind somehow... Well, if it _was_ that Harry, Charles couldn't imagine any obstacle standing between Hogwarts and a child he loved.

"Here we are," he said at last, as their ragged group came to a halt before the cold-room door, which was glowing faintly with a Headmaster's Seal. Charles wasn't entirely certain he was supposed to have the counter-charm, but Professor MacGonagall hadn't guarded her power as jealously as Shaw. A muttered word and tap of his wand sent the Seal into dim dormancy, and they trooped inside, breath pluming. Raven, he saw, had turned her hair black, assumedly as a sign of mourning.

Imogen looked both better and worse than she had this morning. She was clean now, her hair dry and neat, her body laid straight and flat under a white cloth. It was a great improvement, and yet the cold, clean stillness seemed to make her that much more removed from life. She seemed now less a body than a memory.

Dolly stared at her lost friend, hand clutching Raven's tightly, tears gathering in her eyes. For long minutes she was silent, while Charles tried not to shiver visibly. Finally Dolly stepped forward to timidly pull Imogen's hand out from under the cloth, twining her fingers through the pale, cold ones.

"You would have been an amazing witch," she said in a choked whisper. "You would have shown them all." Tears came rushing, then. She set the cold hand gently down again and let Raven lead her from the room.

Charles and Erik stepped forward at the same moment, reaching for the white cloth to arrange it just as it had been. So it was at the same moment that they saw what its minute movement had revealed--a mark in the middle of the girl's chest, stark black against the pale skin.

They exchanged a startled glance. Charles folded the cloth down, just an inch, for a better view.

Clear, bold black lines formed the radial shape of a flower with fat, pointed petals--a lotus, Charles thought. Not, perhaps, an entirely odd choice for a tattoo, but on an eleven-year-old girl? Hesitantly, hardly knowing why he did it, Charles touched a fingertip to the mark.

And snatched it back with a startled hiss.

"What?" Erik demanded.

"It burns," Charles said. "Not--not like fire, like--"

Erik touched the mark and inhaled sharply. "Like magic," he said. "Dark magic."

"As dark as it gets."

Their eyes met over the body in mutual understanding, and fear.

Imogen Cox hadn't drowned at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, in need of information, our boys go -- where else? -- to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra credit points to anyone who spots the bonus X-men character in this chapter. Though I'm not actually very familiar with this character, so I apologize if I messed them up somehow.

"I'm telling you, we should go to Professor Shaw," Erik said.

"And I'm telling you," Charles hissed, "that Shaw is the _prime bloody suspect!"_

Quidditch players swooped and darted in the sky, their shouts barely audible, and Charles distantly supposed that, as the staff member supposedly supervising today's practice, he ought to be sitting in the stands. Instead he was sitting in the grass on the next hill over, with Erik, having the same argument they'd been having all of last night and most of today.

Except, in every other iteration of this argument, Charles had merely sidestepped the idea of going to Shaw. With the result that Erik was now staring at him in outrage and shock.

"What?" he demanded.

"You heard me." Charles rubbed his forehead wearily.

"And where, precisely, does this idea originate?"

Charles worried his lip, hands moving as if to shape the feeling he couldn't quite articulate. "I can't put my finger on it, Erik." And he _should_ , blast it, he was the Divination professor, he spent all _day_ talking about making observations and figuring out what they meant. "Look, you saw him at the crime scene, he didn't care a whit that a girl was dead. Which, admittedly, is Shaw for you, but still... He didn't want an investigation--didn't even _consider_ it--and who does that serve best?"

"That doesn't mean--"

"Our options are limited, my friend. No student, however gifted, could have done this--worked a death-curse strong enough to leave a _brand_? Even _Avada Kedavra_ doesn't do that, and most people would consider it more than sufficient to the purpose. Whoever worked that curse was strong, and skilled, and _practiced_. More so than either of us, certainly. _Subtle_ , too, subtle enough to blur Madam Pomfrey's memory--you saw her face when we took her in there, she didn't remember seeing that mark before, and she couldn't have missed it, cleaning the body. Do you have any idea the kind of delicate spell-work that takes? Who here could do that? Raven? Moira? Cassidy, McCoy, Summers, Frost?"

"Actually..." Erik raised an eyebrow at that last name.

"All right, maybe Frost. But you have to admit it does narrow the pool considerably. Shaw's the only staff member that I _know_ has that skill level."

"You're making a lot of assumptions here, Charles. It may not have been someone from Hogwarts at all."

"You know how hard it is to get an intruder onto the grounds."

"But not impossible."

Charles let out a frustrated breath and rubbed his neck, the rough fabric of his half-gloves scratching. The sky was bright above them, but the breeze was all October, and the grass beneath him and Erik was damp and chilly. He would have loved to go inside, but that would have to wait until after Quidditch practice. The teachers had all agreed not to leave students unsupervised for the time being.

"Why would Shaw kill a student?" Erik asked.

"I don't know. He certainly had no love for Imogen. 'Worse than worthless' was the phrase he used, I believe. It's as good a motive as anyone else has."

"'As good as any.' Hardly an airtight argument, Charles."

"Erik, look, maybe it _wasn't_ Shaw. But we can't go to him with evidence when it even _possibly_ implicates him. Tell me you see that."

Erik just gave an angry shrug, a flick of the hands translating to _I'm tired of arguing but I still disagree_.

Charles sighed heavily, eyes drawn momentarily to _that spot_ behind the stands... "My friend, I have never understood your loyalty to Shaw. At best, the man is power-hungry and insensitive to the point of being inhuman."

"That's true," Erik said, voice still sharp with anger. "He's also the _only_ person on the planet to help me after my parents were killed. All my parents' friends, all their grateful customers? No one lifted a finger to keep me out of that orphanage. But Shaw got me out. Brought me here. I owe him _everything_ , Charles--my education, my career, probably my sanity, even--" His voice faltered suddenly, gentled, and he brushed the backs of his fingers down Charles's cheek. "Even you, Charles. I never would have met you if not for him."

 _And wouldn't that have been a shame_ but he doesn't mean that, it's just being _here_ where he can see exactly where he was standing, behind the bleachers, when he heard the words _pretty smart for a Mudblood_ and he can't help thinking about the pain he could have avoided... Not just that one excruciating conversation, but the solid decade of roiling doubt and bitterness and _miss you_ since then, not to mention the _years_ of being Erik's dirty little schoolboy secret, and even now, the pain of seeing him every day, of sitting just like this within arms' reach and so very, very far away from each other. But giving up that pain would mean losing the thousand touches and jokes and easy kisses, the tender, half-broken smile Erik only ever showed to Charles, like he couldn't believe he was allowed to be this happy--just _Erik_ , with his own language of hands and eyebrows, sharp-eyed with wit or temper or both, hair always perfect until Charles got done with it--Erik who was stoic and obedient with the teachers, rough and loud with the Slytherins, and something else entirely with Charles, funny and easy and passionate. Charles knew, had always known, that he could never give that up, however much it hurt.

All this through his mind, in the instant it took Charles to turn, just a little, into Erik's touch, and hate himself for it, but not enough to pull away.

"One of my prefects is the son of Luna Lovegood Scamander," Charles said, matter-of-factly, as if Erik weren't still touching his face, fingers light on his neck, thumb gliding across his cheekbone, and when had he closed his eyes? "I can write to her, she's done a lot of research into symbology and magical theory, she might have some tips about what kind of curse leaves a lotus-shaped mark."

"I have an old friend who's an Auror, he might know something about curse-marks, too." If Erik's voice was a little more gravelly than usual, neither of them was acknowledging it. "We can do research of our own, too. We have access to one of the better libraries in the country, after all."

"After dinner?"

"After dinner."

Charles's shiver was from the chill of the breeze, not at all connected to Erik's thumb ghosting over his lip, and it was high time for this Quidditch practice to be over. Not one of the students was dressed properly for the weather. Charles stood and headed down the hill toward the Quidditch pitch, not daring to quite look back at Erik as he called over his shoulder, "Meet you at the library, then."

"I'll be there."

 _Oh Charlie boy, you great idiot, what are you doing to yourself?_

\---

Charles couldn't help smiling at Erik's startled reaction to the librarian, when she appeared to let them into the Restricted Section. Madam Pince had retired the year they graduated; the new librarian, McGonagall's hire, was a young Asian woman with spiky, multicolored hair and a variety of piercings who preferred to be addressed as Karma.

"Just remember, I have to close the place down at eight," she said as she re-fastened the rope behind them. "Let me know if you need help with anything."

"We will, thank you," Charles said, then muttered, "Close your mouth, Erik."

"She's, um..."

"Quite good at her job and adored by the students. Now, the books on curses ought to be this way..."

Before long, they had at least a dozen books spread across a table, Erik skimming a rather disturbing in-depth study of the efficacy of various death-curses, while Charles thumbed through a guide to magical symbols and runes.

"Aha!" he murmured when at last he caught sight of the pale, graceful shape of a lotus. "Here we go, here we go. Can symbolize purity, perfection, rebirth, creation, enlightenment... Rather an odd choice for a death-curse, I must say. What do you think?" He glanced up to find Erik watching him in a peculiarly out-of-focus way. "Erik, did you hear a word I just said?"

"Er, no, sorry." Erik shook his head briskly, grinning. "I was just thinking of... You get this _intense_ expression when you're reading something important, you used to do that when we studied. We passed our old table on the way in, I think."

"We did, yes," Charles said, and almost shut his eyes against the sudden flood of memories--

\-- _"You're so cute the night before a final," Erik chuckled, "all cross and frantic and panicky."_

 _Charles glared him over a pile of books and notes. "You ought to be panicky, too, you know, unless you fancy failing Transfiguration this term."_

 _"Oh, I'll pass," Erik waved a hand dismissively and took a crunching bite of the apple that was probably going to get them kicked out of the library any minute now, "and so will you, probably with the highest marks in your House."_

 _"Highest marks in-- May I remind you that I am a_ Ravenclaw? _The competition is--"_

 _"Not nearly as smart as you. Not a single one of them." He ruffled Charles's hair. "Come on, you've studied enough. Your brain needs to breathe. Want to go up on the roof for some chess?"_

 _"Only if it actually is chess this time."_

 _"As opposed to what?" Erik grinned._

 _Charles shot him another glare._

 _"May I remind you," Erik said, "that last time,_ I _was perfectly content to chase your king around the board until you surrendered,_ you _were the one who chose to distract me from my imminent victory--"_

 _"You didn't exactly complain about it," Charles said, feeling his cheeks heat, "but very well, point made."_

 _"I tell you what," Erik said, leaning very close, "I give my word that we will play chess and nothing but chess. I will not even touch you, not one little bit. Unless you ask me to."_

 _And Charles groaned, collapsing forward into his book, because Erik's grin was already telling him what his future held--an evening of Erik doing everything in his power to make him_ beg...

 

"Anyway," Charles said, pretending his voice wasn't suddenly strangled and uneven, "I found the lotus at last, what do you think?"

Erik flipped the book around on the table, scanned the entry. Instead of showing confusion as Charles expected, though, his face darkened.

"What?" Charles asked.

"Purity."

"Aha," Charles breathed, feeling a lead weight settle into his stomach. Imogen had been Muggle-born. Impure.

They both regarded the lotus on the page in silence for a moment.

"It's a quarter til eight," Erik said. "We can pick back up with this tomorrow."

"Yes. I could sorely use a cup of tea right now."

"Or an Irish coffee," Erik muttered, and they made their way through the maze of towering shelves toward the exit.

Along the way, because it was a rare person who could find their through the Hogwarts library twice using the same route, they passed something they hadn't passed on the way in--a display of books about Quidditch, surrounding the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup (a huge, gaudy, golden thing), and a selection of photographs. Some featured players diving and barrell-rolling across the sky, others showed overjoyed teams receiving the Cup at the end of the term, or being lifted onto the shoulders of their classmates in the wake of victory.

In one such photograph, the victorious Slytherin team was engulfed in cheering fans, with the photographer's hand briefly visible as he waved people to the side, trying to get a shot of the players. They posed for the camera, grinning and sweaty and windblown, flexing muscles or waving brooms.

All but one very, very familiar figure who didn't notice the camera, too busy being wildly congratulated by two friends in Ravenclaw scarves. The girl he hugged amiably, ruffling her long blonde hair; the boy he hugged much longer, actually lifting him off the ground for a moment and swinging him back and forth, burying his face in his hair. Then a teammate poked his shoulder, pointed out the camera, and Erik turned toward it, smile wide and toothy, his arm still around the smaller boy. They were just a little too cozy, the boy's head pillowed too comfortably on Erik's shoulder, his arm disappearing around Erik's back under the first layer of robes, while Erik's hand drifted up to touch the boy's hair. Just before the loop started over, back to the beginning with the blurry glimpse of the photographer's hand, they exchanged a long look-- one that could only be described as mutual adoration.

Charles remembered that day, remembered the uncomplicated joy of victory and the warm pleasure of Erik's arm around him, remembered that, though you couldn't tell in the picture, Erik had sneaked a kiss to his temple during that enthusiastic hug. Remembered that afterward, Erik had, unusually, blown off the Slytherin victory party to stay with Charles, and they'd spent the evening pestering the house-elves for snacks, snogging in the empty Astronomy Tower, and planting Charles's Magic Eight Ball (enchanted to give bizarre, offensive answers) in the Divination professor's desk.

They watched the photograph runs its course three times in silence.

"And we thought we were being subtle," Erik said at last, dryly. "I wonder if the whole school knew."

 _There was only one of us,_ Charles couldn't help thinking, _who had any problem with that._ "We look so young," he said aloud. The boys in the picture looked like _babies_ to him now, their faces so smooth and thin, their muscles still weedy. Oblivious idiot children, both of them.

"You haven't changed a bit," Erik said.

Charles punched his arm. "Bite your tongue! I grew four inches after that picture."

Erik chuckled. "Aside from that. You're still the same bright, brainy, stupidly optimistic dreamer you ever were."

Charles knew that wasn't true. He'd learned the hard way, after all, that life could spring unpleasant surprises on you. He knew he was more cautious now, more cynical, than he had been as a boy. To be otherwise was to set himself up for failure and pain. But he _had_ tried to hold onto as much of the hope and beauty of life as he could. Most days it was enough.

"I was so afraid of what would happen to you when you grew up," Erik said softly. "When you discovered how awful the world could be. I was afraid you'd... well, turn into me."

"I have more sense than that," Charles said, as teasingly as he could manage.

"You do, thank God." Without quite looking at him, Erik shifted closer, just enough to press his hand briefly into Charles's. "Goodnight, _Maus_." He made for the exit without looking back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's flashback time again!

_(((Fourth Year)))_

Hogsmeade was, as usual, a perfect Dickens wonderland--snow piled on the roofs of the crooked, crowded shops; every window bright with golden candlelight; the air swirling with snowflakes, snatches of song, and the scents of pine and gingerbread. Charles and Erik stepped out of the Three Broomsticks and were nearly bowled over by a gaggle of laughing third years. A sprig of enchanted mistletoe floated after them, shouting something about the demands of tradition.

"Would you watch where you're going?" Erik shouted, steadying Charles before he could fall over, but it was clear none of them had even noticed him.

If Charles felt light-headed for just a moment, it was undoubtedly from being nearly knocked over, it had nothing to do with Erik's hand on his shoulder or the way the candlelight gilded his face and the tiny snowflakes caught in his eyelashes _I will never be that beautiful_ because that just didn't make _sense_. Moving on.

Charles dredged up a laugh to diffuse Erik's irritation, pulling his gloves out of his coat pocket. "We were idiots as third years, too."

Erik snorted. "In the shadowy past of _a year ago_."

"Come home with me for Christmas," Charles said, not for the first time. "Raven's not coming this year, she's off to see her mum in America, and my parents are accustomed to me bringing a friend, they won't care at all."

Erik shrugged awkwardly. "I should stay--I'm sure Professor Shaw has some special project for me again--"

"I'm ever so concerned about Shaw's opinion on the matter." Charles rolled his eyes, fighting with the gloves. They didn't want to go onto the right fingers. "He can't _make_ you stay, it's a school break. Come on, Erik, for the past two Christmases I've had to leave you here alone and I hate it." He hated constantly turning to tell Erik something only to find empty air and a jab of pain in his chest, almost as much as he hated the thought of Erik spending the holiday lonely and cold in a drafty, echoing castle, with no one to make sure he ate regularly and kept his feet warm. "You miss me, too, admit it."

"A little," Erik said haughtily. Charles snorted; no one who greeted his return with bone-crushing hugs and hours of excited babble could say he missed him 'a little.'

"But I won't be alone this year," Erik continued. "The Parkinsons are staying."

Charles dropped his gloves. Erik's Quidditch teammate was bad enough, but his sister Primrose made Charles's skin crawl with the way she hung all over Erik, batting her eyelashes and tossing her hair back, it was embarrassing and _disgusting_ and she wasn't even pretty or very smart either and Erik could do a lot better, _deserved_ a lot better--

Erik made a frustrated noise and scooped Charles's dropped gloves out of the snow, muttering something about _helpless_ and _take care of you all the time_ , reached for Charles's hands.

Charles let him have them, swallowing. "Come for Christmas, Erik, do."

"Let me think about it. I really should clear it with Professor Shaw first."

"If you must."

Erik managed to get one glove on straight, Charles's fingers--but not his thumb, his thumbs got cold too easily--poking out the raggedly trimmed ends. The other glove Erik began pulling onto his own hand.

"Oi! What do you think you're doing, Erik, that's _my_ glove--"

"Well, I didn't bring mine and my hands are cold."

"So I should suffer for your stupidity? Give that back, you're going to stretch it with your monstrous big hand!" He lunged for the glove, but Erik held it up out of his reach. "Erik, give me that!"

"Come get it, then!" His teeth flashed in what Charles called the Lehnshark Grin, and he bolted down the street.

"Erik!" Charles shouted in the mix of exasperation and laughter that had become so familiar in the past two years, and raced after him.

They dodged and darted through the crowded streets, shouting and laughing and ignoring the glares they collected, and twice Charles caught up and nearly got the glove away only to have Erik twist from his grasp like an eel. Finally he lost sight of Erik entirely and turned searchingly in the middle of the street, at the edge of town with snow piled between the less-crowded buildings, feeling oddly bereft.

Until Erik tackled him out of nowhere, crashing them both down into a snowdrift. Charles let out a yelp of mingled surprise/ _snow_ on my back/you're crushing me and Erik's eyebrows quirked with concern despite his lunatic grin.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" he said breathlessly, inches from Charles's face.

"I'm fine." Charles barely managed the words, distracted by the shocking bone-deep jolt of _yes_ through his whole body at the feel of Erik's weight pinning him down. _Oh god what is wrong with me no don't get up--_

Erik _wasn't_ getting up, and his grin had faded, and he was staring at Charles as if he had never quite seen him before and what he was seeing now was alarming but also--maybe? or was Charles imagining this--not entirely displeasing?

Their gazes locked and Charles entirely forgot how to breathe.

Then Erik shook his head as if waking up, and got to his feet, and Charles let him pull him up as well, and they were still a lesson in the violation of personal space but the frightening _wanting_ moment was gone.

Until a voice overhead proclaimed, "Tradition demands a kiss!"

They both looked up at the enchanted sprig of mistletoe for a blank moment.

"Well?" it demanded.

Charles felt a dizzy what-am-I-doing smile spread over his face, one eyebrow lifting. "Tradition demands," he said, and curved a hand around the back of Erik's head to pull him down.

The kiss was light and delicate and brief--maybe four seconds, which was about three and a half seconds longer than Charles had anticipated. At the end of those four seconds they both pulled back and stared at each other in shock.

Then Erik tugged him into the nearest alley, away from prying eyes, and kissed him again, and again, and again, soft and slow one minute, frantic the next, pressing him against the wall when he couldn't hold him tight enough. Charles's mind was a white-out of disbelief and rapture, arms around Erik's neck, wishing there weren't so many layers of clothing between them.

A group of carolers walked by their alley-- _"We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!"_ \--and Erik started, tried to draw away. Charles would have none of it, tightening his arms around Erik's neck. _Mine now. Mine now, mine_ forever...

After subjective hours--perhaps twenty minutes--of slow, sweet exploration of each other's mouths and cheeks and throats, they allowed each other to pull back, gasping, resting their foreheads together. Charles let his hands slide down to Erik's chest, tangling in his green-and-silver scarf, and leaned into the fingertips Erik traced across his face.

"Is tradition satisfied?" Erik said hoarsely.

"For now," Charles said with a breathless laugh.

"I think they're loading up the carriages, we'd better go."

Charles swallowed and nodded. Back to their separate dormitories, where they would have to _think_ and not be touching.

Erik smiled tenderly at Charles's pained expression, possibly the most beautiful smile Charles had ever seen, and pressed one last feather-soft kiss to lips that felt seared and heavy and bruised in the most marvelous way. "Tomorrow, bring your lunch to that empty classroom next to Logan's?"

"All right." Another one-last-kiss. "Does this mean you're coming home with me for Christmas?"

"Try and _stop_ me."

That thought cheered Charles enough to get him out of the alley without being dragged.

Students were hurrying down the cobbles toward the half-loaded carriages at the end of the street. Charles and Erik meandered behind them, each wearing one glove, their other hands tucked in each other's pockets.

There was no chance of getting a carriage to themselves, so they chose the next-best option--one so crowded that they had to sit packed together. It was easy, in the profusion of coats and scarves and lap-blankets, to keep their hands linked out of sight.

As the carriages pulled away from Hogsmeade, Charles could just hear the carolers, still going strong outside.

 _"Our cheeks are nice and rosy  
And comfy cozy are we  
We're snuggled up together  
Like two birds of a feather would be  
Let's take that road before us  
And sing a chorus or two  
Come on, it's lovely weather  
For a sleigh ride together with you!"_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik gives a class demonstration on how to lose a duel.

Erik gave up on sleep the fifth time he was knocked out of a restless doze by nothing in particular, and spent the pre-dawn hour writing to the old friend he'd mentioned to Charles. Victor Creed was one of those rarest of creatures, a Slytherin Auror; they'd crossed paths in the course of Erik's Ministry work and spent a few scotch-soaked evenings ranting to each other about anti-Slytherin prejudice. Erik had come to the conclusion that most people didn't judge Creed for being a Slytherin so much as they judged him for being a borderline psychopath with a hair-trigger temper, but Erik rather liked him anyway. Though he did feel a little uneasy sending his unsuspecting owl into the man's vicinity.

"Stay out of this one's reach, if you can," he told Esther, his elderly Great Gray Owl, as he gave her the letter. "He has a strong prey drive."

Esther gave him a disdainful look.

"Yes, I know you can take care of yourself," Erik said. "You've been doing it for seventeen years. Be careful anyway."

Esther stretched creaking, arthritic wings and slid soundlessly from the Owlery into the dawn-streaked air.

Erik had never actually wanted an owl, but Shaw hadn't consulted him in the matter, plucking Esther more or less randomly from the display at the Magical Menagerie. Erik could not have told _Shaw_ \-- or anyone else, really -- how much he would have preferred one of the fluffy kittens in the window instead. Esther was practical and dignified, happy to keep her distance and live her own owlish life. She didn't seem to mind that her owner could muster little affection for her, only respect for her independence and predatory beauty.

Although he might have gotten more attached to her than he realized, Erik thought, feeling an unaccustomed trickle of concern through his gut as he watched her slow, meandering progress through the air. When she came back from this delivery, he might see if there wasn't something Madam Pomfrey could do for her arthritis.

One task discharged, Erik was tempted to fall back into bed for one last attempt at sleep -- until he remembered that he had an unusually early commitment this morning. Professor Logan, finding himself unexpectedly called out of town, had been scrambling for teachers to cover his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, and asked him and Charles to take this morning's first years.

"Give 'em a Patronus demonstration, that oughta blow their socks off," Logan had grumbled through his cigar (strictly forbidden on school grounds, which stopped Logan exactly never). "I swear the little monsters get younger every year, half of 'em never seen a _boggart_ before. A corporeal Patronus will have them wetting themselves. I'll send Shaw in, too."

That was the extent of the instruction they got before Logan's sidekick dragged him off to catch his train. (His female prefect, rather, but Logan _always_ had a female prefect following him around, and it might have been unseemly except that Logan never seemed to actually _enjoy_ any of the attention.)

So Logan caught his train, and Erik and Charles were left to glance awkwardly at each other and part ways without a word. Because yes, back in sixth year they had both learned to conjure a Patronus, being in desperate need of the extra credit. But their success had been based on a very specific memory. Erik had no idea whether that would work now, or if the intervening years had poisoned it too much.

 _"Yours will be a shark as sure as the world, my friend, all those terrifying teeth--"_

 _"Well, I'd_ rather _have a terrifying Patronus than the quivering little_ mouse _you're sure to produce!"_

They'd both been wrong, of course, rather to Erik's relief. He felt his wolf Patronus -- dangerous, certainly, but also a loyal mate and fierce defender of his pack -- to be far more appropriate than the soulless killing machine of a shark. Charles had been delighted with his own ghostly silver raccoon. He'd seen some once, in America with Raven, he told Erik while the shimmering creature climbed his shoulder and pawed his hair, and been rather taken with the clever, playful, inquisitive little fellows with their bright eyes and nimble paws.

Now Shaw, he of the mouth-only smiles, _there_ was a man who might have a shark Patronus... or perhaps a tarantula...

Back in his room, Erik took a moment to gather his wits. Unless he wanted to find out in front of a classroom of students, he needed to practice his Patronus Charm now and see if it still worked.

"Pull up the happiest memory you got," Professor Logan had said eleven years ago. "Focus on it. Nothing else exists but that. Sink yourself in it until all you got in you is happy. _Then_ try the charm." He'd closed his eyes for a moment, mouth tipping up in the ghost of a smile, then-- _"Expecto Patronum!"_ \--and the class had gasped and cheered at the sight of a strange badger-like creature (a wolverine, he'd learned later) flowing from the end of Logan's wand.

The happiest memory he had. Erik closed his eyes, shifted his grip on his wand. Focused on the memory of snow and gingerbread and mistletoe and finally, finally kissing the boy he'd wanted to kiss for months without daring to admit it to himself -- the warmth of his skin and silk of his hair and the fragile, trembling joy of even the _idea_ that Charles could want him too, love him too --

Erik hadn't conjured a Patronus since graduation. It hurt too much to try.

But things were better with Charles now. Not as good as they could be, not as good as he wanted them to be, but well enough to talk, play chess, eat dinner. Charles didn't hate him, which was more than he could have hoped for a year ago. Maybe that would be enough.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silver mist rose from the end of his wand. Erik held his breath--but that was all. It didn't form into a wolf. It didn't form into anything. It simply hung there, and then faded away.

"That, students," Erik muttered, "is called a non-corporeal Patronus. While it can be useful, it is a much weaker, more primitive version of the charm. No extra credit for you."

He slammed his wand down on the nearest table and went to get some coffee before class.

 

Erik was the last to arrive at Logan's classroom. The Slytherin and Ravenclaw first-years were already gathered -- he spared Scorpius Malfoy a nod--and at the head of the room stood Charles and... Shaw? Oh, yes, Logan had mentioned sending Shaw to demonstrate as well.

"Good morning, Erik," Shaw called cheerfully. "Professor Xavier here was just telling me that Professor Logan had wanted the three of us to conjure Patronuses. I'm afraid I didn't get the memo in his hurried departure."

 _Then what are you doing here?_ Erik couldn't help wondering.

"I had a different idea for covering the class," Shaw continued, "one that I think is, no disrespect to Professor Logan, much more practical for first-years than a charm eighty percent of them will never be able to perform."

"He wants to duel," Charles said with dry disapproval.

"Practical application of Defensive magic," Shaw shrugged. "And everyone loves a good duel. Don't they, children?"

The students all whooped enthusiastically.

"There, you see? Come now, Erik, ready yourself."

"You're dueling _me_?"

"It's only sporting. Your marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts were always higher than Xavier's. First row of students, come move these tables and then everyone stand back!"

Charles took Erik's arm, pulling him aside while the children moved the furniture. "I don't like this, Erik."

"It's just a practice duel," Erik said, though the glitter in Shaw's eyes made him uneasy. He quirked an eyebrow at Charles. "Will you stand as my second, then?"

Charles snorted. "As Deputy Headmaster, I ought to stand as Shaw's."

"I'll count myself fortunate, then, that seconds aren't required for practice duels."

"Ready, Erik?" Shaw called. He stood at the center of the room, legs braced, already whipping his wand about eagerly.

"Coming, sir."

"Erik, are you sure you want to do this?"

"Are you sure I have a choice? You just focus on staying between us and the students, eh?" Erik pulled out his wand and strode to the center of the room.

His mind was busy as he approached and exchanged bows with his opponent. He hadn't done much with dueling spells in ages, but he could still work a Shield Charm or a Body-Bind--

 _"Fodio!"_ Shaw's voice crackled and Erik only bit out half of "Protego!" before a bolt of white energy hit his arm, a stab of pain that nearly made him drop his wand.

"Expelliarmus!" Erik shouted back, shooting a jet of green.

Shaw dodged. "Incarcerous!" he returned, and Erik was too busy fighting off the magical ropes this conjured to block another _Fodio_ , this time to the leg.

"Ouch, curse you! _Everte Statum!"_ which caught Shaw a glancing blow to the hip and spun him twice, but he retained his balance and raised his wand again.

"Incendio!"

Erik barely blocked the jet of fire aimed at his chest. _Incendio?_ In a _practice duel?_ If his block had been too slow--

"Everte Statum!"

"Protego!"

"Depulso!"

"Confringo!"

Erik dodged the Blasting Curse and leaped away from the empty desk that exploded in his place. His eyes met Charles's for a moment, found considerable alarm there.

"Protego!" Erik shouted, just in time to block something acid-green that Shaw had cast non-verbally, and there was no time for alarm then, only defense, dodging and blocking and darting about the room, trusting Charles to protect the students--which he did, more than once redirecting a wild spell--because he had all he could do to protect himself. Erik shot off the occasional offensive spell, even landed a few hits, but not enough to disarm or disable a man with twenty years more experience and, apparently, a great deal more recent practice.

The duel migrated through the room, Erik forced to take advantage of whatever obstacles came to hand-- desks, chairs, bookshelves, all left overturned or singed or both. Logan was going to rain fire on the head of whomever he deemed responsible for the destruction, but that was a problem for later.

Hunkered behind a shattered bookshelf, he was lifting his head to aim a Body-Bind Curse when he saw Charles, intent on dousing the flames of a runaway _Incendio_ , step unwittingly into Shaw's line of fire just as he raised his wand. Erik shot to his feet.

"Charles get _back_ \--"

Red light dazzled his eyes, and he heard only the first half of Shaw's shouted _"Stupefy!"_ before it faded to black.

\--

Erik became gradually aware of a rattling noise and the scent of chamomile. He couldn't see anything. After a moment, it occurred to him that this was because his eyes were closed. It took him another moment's thought to work around to opening them.

He was in Charles's room -- in Charles's bed, in fact -- and Charles himself was facing the counter on the opposite wall, preparing a tray of tea and sandwiches. He'd thrown his robes across the sofa, and under his cardigan the tension in his shoulders was obvious, his movements swift and savage. The rattling sound was from the china, knocking together in Charles's shaking hands.

Charles, he realized, was spitting mad.

"Did you blow up the teapot again?" Erik asked, sitting up.

Charles started at the sound, turned with relief washing through his anger. "Erik! How do you feel?"

"Stunning Spells aren't damaging, Charles. That's their point, really."

"That may be so, but collapsing like a ragdoll onto a stone floor can be very damaging indeed." He set the tray on the bedside table and took Erik's chin in his hand, turning his head to run gentle, probing fingers through his hair. "Any pain, any tender spots?"

"No." _But you can keep doing that..._

He stopped, sadly, and maybe it was only in Erik's mind that his fingertips lingered a bit longer than they had to.

"Here, drink your tea. The sandwiches are corned beef. Did you skip breakfast again?"

"Yes." He took the plate eagerly. Charles knew corned beef was his favorite.

Charles took a seat on the bed, one leg folded under him, and watched him eat as if grading him on it. "I can't believe Shaw did that," he said between clenched teeth. "During a _practice duel._ In front of _students_ \--the whole place was in uproar, at least three children were in tears, poor Scorpius thought you were _dead_. What was the man thinking?"

"Well, it was a more accurate demonstration this way, admit it," Erik said dryly. "A real enemy, Dark wizard or dueling opponent or what have you, isn't going to pull his punches."

"I wish you wouldn't always defend him."

"Well, _I_ wish I had more tea."

Glaring, Charles obliged. When he spoke next, his voice was softer, hesitant. "I didn't miss the reason you lost the duel. The reason you left cover."

"Losing the duel was a foregone conclusion, and leaving cover was flat stupidity. It didn't accomplish anything."

"It changed the angle of Shaw's aim. Away from me."

Erik barked a laugh. "I wish I could say it was that well thought-out. The truth is I panicked."

"Well, try to panic in a less self-destructive manner next time, there's a lad."

"If you'll try not to amble obliviously into harm's way."

"Agreed." Charles held out his hand and they shook on it.

Erik meant to let go, he really did. Only one fingertip somehow caught the pulse point in Charles's wrist and his hand simply stopped obeying him.

Charles wasn't letting go, either. In fact, his grip shifted and tightened, wrapping around Erik's wrist and thumb, and he closed his eyes a moment. "I'm glad you're all right," he murmured.

Erik would not _press_ , he would not. He squeezed Charles's hand, then made himself let go. "Where's my wand? I almost feel I should make sure it still answers to me, after my sound defeat."

"You don't lose a wand in a practice duel," Charles said. He gestured and the length of blackthorn wood flew to his hand from across the room.

"True, and yet nothing about that duel felt particularly practice-like, did it?" Erik hefted the wand in his hand. It still felt right, natural, as it always had. It might not be his first, best wand, but it was an excellent wand nonetheless, and had served him well. _"Lumos,"_ he whispered, and the tip lit obediently.

"There, you see? Takes more than that to get rid of a blackthorn wand," Charles said. "Even when they _are_ won fair and square, it's not easy to get them to bond to a new master -- you remember the trouble you had with this one, second year."

"Didn't seem to be trying very hard for me," Erik remembered. "Until the fire crabs." Mr. Ollivander had warned him that, to earn his new wand's true allegiance, they might have to go through some kind of trial -- which fighting off a platoon of angry fire crabs certainly had been. "It's hard to win a blackthorn's heart, but once you do, it's harder still to lose it."

Almost unwillingly, he looked at Charles, knowing his eyes were hiding nothing. Charles's return gaze was equal parts pain and longing.

"I know." He stood, carried his empty teacup to the counter. "Finish your sandwiches, we both have class in twenty minutes."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the plot continues to thicken.

An owl dropped a letter in Charles's pot roast halfway through lunch.

"Already?" Erik said, spying the name _Luna Lovegood Scamander_ on the return address. Charles must certainly have sent his letter earlier than Erik sent his; he didn't expect an answer from Victor Creed for days.

"Shh," Charles said, glancing to be sure that Shaw's seat was still empty, and none of the other staff were watching, before opening the envelope. The reply looked fairly long, at least two pages of delicate, precise handwriting in sky-blue ink.

"What exactly did you ask her?" Erik said uneasily. Charles was such a geek for the Second Wizarding War, and Luna had been a member of Dumbledore's Army, fought in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, the bloody _Battle of Hogwarts_... Erik hoped Charles's hero-worship hadn't led him to divulge too much information to a woman who was, after all, a complete stranger.

Charles did not reply, eyes scanning avidly. When he'd finished the letter, he slipped it casually beneath his plate, and would not share a word of its contents until they left the Great Hall.

"I only asked her if she knew what sort of spell might leave a lotus-shaped brand on a person," he murmured, so low Erik could barely hear, as they traversed an empty corridor. "And she doesn't know of one. That in itself tells us a lot."

"How so?"

"There aren't very many spells that leave a mark at all. Those that do are mostly lethal, which means they're well-documented. It's Luna's opinion that this must be a newly-invented spell, and they're not easy to come by. It's one thing to do a variation on an existing spell, but a whole-cloth invention -- or even splicing existing spells together -- is extraordinarily difficult. One of the few -- here, just look at this paragraph."

Erik took the letter from his hand, scanned the indicated sentences while Charles glanced nervously around for observers.

 _One of the few masters of this art that I ever knew was in fact our own brave Headmaster Snape, who invented at least two spells while still a Hogwarts student. Unfortunately, his work was mostly in very dangerous areas -- Dark areas, to tell you the truth. It is important, when studying Professor Snape, to remember that though he died a hero, he did not always live as one. In any case, even as a scholar of magical theory I am not authorized to access what little survives of Professor Snape's work. I believe the school has custody of Professor's Snape personal papers and research. As Deputy Headmaster, you might be able to access it where I cannot._

"Can you?" Erik asked, glancing over the top of the letter at Charles.

"No." Charles's eyes were bright with a sort of excited suspicion. "Only the headmaster has access to the research left to the school by previous headmasters. Erik, don't you _see?_ This is why Shaw was so determined to make himself headmaster! It's bothered me all this while -- why he would trample so many toes to get himself a position that he proceeds to do _nothing_ with, he doesn't even exercise the power he fought to get, spends all his time locked up in his tower -- which is probably where Snape's papers would be located--"

"You're drawing a lot of conclusions from an offhand comment, Charles. We don't even know that Snape left anything here at all." Erik's eyes slid further down the page. "What of this Order of the Lotus? They would have a motive..."

"Except they don't exist anymore."

The Order of the Lotus, Luna mentioned, was the only organization she knew of that had used the lotus symbol in comparatively recent history. A pureblood supremacy group, she said, that had predated Voldemort, and fizzled out sometime in the sixties.

"It's worth looking into, surely."

"That, it is. Another trip to the library, then?" Charles said.

"Indeed." They had reached a point in the corridor where they had to part ways to go to their respective classrooms. Erik turned and pressed the letter back into Charles's hands. "I'll look forward to it."

 

Since the mysterious incident of Erik's missing supplies, he had developed a habit of running his eyes over the supply cabinets every time he entered the Potions classroom. So it took him less than a second to perceive the bare place in the back cabinet.

The same missing vials as before -- scurvy grass, ginger root, scarab beetles, skinkroot. Everything you'd need for a Power-Boosting Potion.

And a bottle of valerian extract, large enough to knock out a horse.

\---

"Why didn't you mention this before?" Charles hissed, frozen in the act of opening a book.

Their table -- it was _their table_ this time, they had both walked unerringly toward it without a word -- was covered in materials on the history of pureblood-versus-Muggleborn sentiment. Erik had also managed to snag one book on potions, just to check his assumptions on what the missing ingredients might be used for.

"Why didn't I mention that my first year -- first _day_ \-- as a teacher started off with the great indignity of being robbed? Whyever would someone keep that information private, Charles?"

"Did you tell Shaw?"

"No. I…" Erik sighed. He really hated fueling Charles's determination to suspect Shaw, but the facts were the facts. "I suspected Shaw himself might have taken them, in which case he would be annoyed if I made a stink about it."

Charles's mouth tightened, eyes burning -- Erik could almost see the frustrated outburst he was determined not to make, boiling off him like smoke.

"I've begun to think that was a mistake," Erik said. "He may have taken them as some sort of test, in which case hushing it up was probably the wrong reaction. Though he hasn't _seemed_ displeased with me..." Well, displeased with his socializing with Charles, but that was neither relevant nor up for discussion.

"Speaking strictly as a teacher, you should have told him at the first, and you certainly should now. I'm truly not sure, at this point, whether it's wiser to act normal -- which would mean telling him -- or avoid letting on that you've even noticed..." Charles's attention suddenly narrowed onto the page he'd been flipping idly by. "Here it is, here it is! The Order of the Lotus, came together sometime in the 1950s… looks like it was never very well-organized, pretty scary nevertheless, calling for the Ministry to take over Muggle governments so that wizards could assume their rightful place as rulers..." His voice went dry. "Muggle-born wizards as some sort of second-class citizen, midway between real wizards and Muggle slaves. Wouldn't that have been fun, Erik, I could be your housekeeper..."

Erik, who had left his seat to peer over Charles's shoulder, snorted. "Wouldn't that be rich, you as a housekeeper. Speaking of poorly organized."

Charles craned his neck to look at Erik over his shoulder.

"What?" Erik said after a moment.

"Just wondering," Charles said. "If you'd been alive in the 1950s..."

Erik didn't have to wonder. Quite frankly, the idea of buying Charles off an auction block, _his_ to care for and protect, had a certain appeal.

"No," he said, a little hoarsely, feeling an unaccustomed rush of shame. "I'm not out to enslave anyone."

Charles gave an uncertain little smile, as if willing himself to be convinced.

"I want you by my _side_ , Charles," Erik said, "not under my thumb." _There_ was something closer to the truth; he heard the relief in his own voice, saw it reflected in Charles's eyes. Charles reached up to briefly touch the hand Erik didn't remember placing on his shoulder, then turned his eyes back to the book.

"So whatever happened to this Order?" Erik asked. "Just fell apart?"

"More or less, apparently -- in 1962, following the arrest and imprisonment of most of its leader… ship…" His voice faltered, and Erik leaned closer, looking for the words that had stopped Charles in his tracks.

 _\--conspiracy to murder the Muggle Prime Minister, the majority of them sentenced to life in Azkaban -- including the Order's founder, Cornelius Shaw._

\---

"You're still going to argue whether this needs to be done? Shaw's father, Erik, his _father_ was the _founder_ \--"

"I'm not arguing that, Charles," Erik said heavily, leaning against the back of an armchair in Charles's tea-and-book-scented chambers. "Even I can't say he's not a suspect at this point. But it's just too _dangerous_. If he catches you--"

"He won't. Not if you hold up your end." Charles picked up a chipped ivory-colored mug from his countertop -- good heavens, was that the same self-filling mug -- and tapped it with his wand, muttering something that sounded like _cremas maximus_.

"But if he _does_ \-- Charles, if you're right, if Shaw has killed a little girl simply for being Muggle-born and obnoxious, he won't hesitate--"

Charles set down the mug to turn and face Erik, punctuating each phrase with a jab of his finger and a step in his direction. "Which is _why_ I am _depending_ on you to _protect_ me."

His finger actually touched Erik's chest on the last jab. Erik couldn't look away from his eyes -- bright and hard with determination, anger, fear.

"It's simple enough, Erik," Charles said, breaking the gaze at last. "Just keep Shaw distracted for an hour. He's generally eager to hear himself speak."

"Let him speak to _you_ , then, while _I_ search his rooms," Erik said as Charles turned back to his mug, now near-overflowing with whipped cream. "He's less likely to kill me outright, I think."

"He won't talk to me long enough. He knows I'll nag him about some headmasterly duty or other; he's learned to give me the brush-off as quickly as possible. You, on the other hand, are the teacher's pet. Besides, McGonagall gave the Tower password to _me_ , I don't know if it will work for anyone else."

Erik shook his head. "I don't like it."

"Erik, listen to me. This man very possibly murdered a child. I am going to do whatever I must to see that dealt with. _I am doing this._ You can either help me, or let me take my chances alone."

This, Erik realized, was not the boy he'd known -- tightly wound, easily rattled, fearless only when he gave himself no time to think. This was the man that boy had grown into, the compact lines of his body humming with controlled agitation. This was a deeper, steadier, wiser version of that boy, and Erik hadn't suspected he could love him _more_ that way.

He blinked back a sudden vision of the two of them, laugh-lined and graying, grading papers by the fire -- Erik absently bringing Charles's hand to his lips as they passed that same cocoa mug back and forth, Charles leaning against Erik's shoulder to complain about his students --

"Well?" Charles said.

"Blast you," Erik said, "you know I won't let you do this alone."

Charles smiled, half-cocky, half-relieved. "I did suspect."

"Manipulator."

"Well," Charles said with grave humility, "one works with what one has." He dipped his head to take a sip of cocoa, came back up with whipped cream on his upper lip.

Erik chuckled. Still the boy he'd known after all, perhaps. "What one has," he repeated. "And what do you have, Charles?"

Charles held perfectly still while Erik swiped the whipped cream away with his thumb. "You," he said, almost too low for Erik to hear.

"Yes," Erik said, almost too low to hear himself. "Me."

\---

Charles had long since trained himself to remember his dreams with clarity and detail; it was only fair that he do what he required of his students, after all, and he truly believed that dreams could provide valuable insights -- not into the future, of course, unless one actually had the Sight -- but into the present, into the things the subconscious mind felt compelled to communicate to its daylight counterpart. Sometimes this communication was deucedly indirect, layered in symbolism, requiring a great deal of thought and consideration to understand.

Other times, not so much.

In this dream, Charles was seventeen again, raw and shaky from his argument with Erik.

 _"Stop clinging, Charles, I'm allowed to have friends, I can't spend every waking moment with you!"_

 _"That's not what-- you never-- but fine, never mind, do as you like!"_

He knew the next step in the dance, of course, knew how it had all fallen out -- his younger self, feeling guilty for picking a fight their last night at Hogwarts, walking down to the Quidditch pitch to meet Erik when his practice ended, ducking behind the stands to avoid the Slytherins... But not this time. This time he stayed in his room.

And when Erik came to his door -- which couldn't happen, Erik couldn't come into Ravenclaw Tower -- but Erik came to the door and said _I'm sorry I snapped at you_ and _I love you_ and _Forgive me_ and Charles was happy to fall into his arms, and somewhere else in the castle he could hear himself sobbing into Raven's shoulder _I know he didn't mean it, I know he loves me, and that just means that this is how he treats the people he loves_ but that was a different Charles, this Charles hadn't overheard a thing. And then Hogwarts was the train station, in the logic-free way of dreams, and he and Erik kissed on the platform until the whistle blew, and then boarded the train together hand in hand.

He couldn't wish for that, not really, Charles knew that as soon as he woke. Simply ignoring Erik's sins, seeking bliss in ignorance -- that wasn't healthy, and it wouldn't have fixed their problems, just kept them simmering beneath the surface a little longer.

Long enough to have their 'honeymoon' trip. Long enough, maybe, to become adults together, something deeper and more stable than schoolboy sweethearts. Long enough, maybe, for Erik to grow up.

 _Or not. After all, it's been ten years, and he's shown no sign yet of outgrowing his flaws. In ten years, he never wrote to apologize. He still hasn't really apologized. He still thinks his actions were justifiable. I can't just ignore that. I can't pretend it doesn't matter._

So he couldn't wish the dream true.

He was still late for breakfast because he spent so long staring at his ceiling, trying to recapture the feeling of stepping onto that train with Erik's fingers twined in his.

\---

Luck was with them; it was a Saturday, and Shaw was less likely than usual to show his face outside his tower on the weekends, but this morning he came down to breakfast only a few minutes after Charles arrived. They had agreed to give Charles an hour, one full hour from the time he left for the Headmaster's Tower to the time Erik let Shaw out of his sight. Charles bolted his breakfast and left the table with some casual, fictitious comment to Raven about having a pile of essays to grade before their planned outing that afternoon; Shaw paid no attention, leisurely settling a second helping of flapjacks onto his plate, and Erik dared to hope he wouldn't have to actually do a thing.

But within twenty minutes, Shaw had finished off the flapjacks and was rising from the table.

"Pardon me, Headmaster," Erik said, setting aside his own half-finished breakfast. "I had hoped to have a word with you."

Shaw cocked his head at him, and Erik felt an uncomfortable kinship to the proverbial bird in the gaze of a snake.

"Of course, Erik," Shaw said. "Walk with me."

Walking, presumably toward the Tower -- that wouldn't do. Erik kept his pace as slow as he could without drawing attention as they left the Great Hall.

"Is this about our practice duel, Erik?" Shaw asked, not sounding particularly concerned. "I've been wondering if I ought to apologize for that. I had thought only to provide a realistic and exciting demonstration for the students, but Professor Xavier seemed to feel -- quite strongly -- that I took things a little far."

"There was no harm done," Erik said uncomfortably. "Charles does tend to… well, he disapproves of violence generally, and I think he was rather afraid I had been genuinely hurt."

"Hm, yes." Shaw's expression now was distinctly speculative. "Soft boy in general, I knew that much, but _exceedingly_ concerned for you in particular, I found that interesting. You should have heard the way he screamed your name, when you dropped like a stone to the floor. Do you know, he actually drew his wand on me before he got control of himself? That could have ended _very_ messily."

Erik swallowed. "Well, soft, as you said," he said as airily as he could. "Emotional. Tends to overreact. But that's actually not what I wanted to speak to you about." He touched Shaw's arm, pulling him to a stop in the hallway, and glanced around as if to be sure no one could hear. "I was wondering, sir, if you'd decided to borrow some of the Potions supplies from the classroom?"

Shaw cocked his head again, and curse the man, how could you tell when he was lying when his every word was so artificial to begin with? "Why, no, Erik. I would, of course, inform you before doing something like that. Why? Is something missing?"

Humbly, Erik named the missing vials, and confessed about the previous theft, sneaking a glance at his watch. Charles had been gone thirty minutes.

Shaw _tsk_ ed at him, expressed great disappointment that Erik had let embarrassment keep him from reporting something so serious, asked if any of his students had been acting oddly, if he needed the vials replaced immediately. Erik spun his answers out as much as he could with verbosity and long pauses.

Forty minutes.

"Well, it's inevitable really that things will go missing from Potions," Shaw said. "You have to learn to handle it, Erik. No more of this ignoring and hoping it'll go away, you should have come straight to me."

"I will, sir, if it happens again," Erik said.

Shaw nodded, and began to move off. No, not yet--! "Headmaster, there is one last thing I've been meaning to ask you," Erik blurted, then had to rack his mind for more when Shaw turned, eyebrows raised expectantly. "My wand! I, er -- I don't know if you remember that I lost my wand, second year?" Higgs's father had taken Erik to Ollivander's for the replacement, so he wasn't quite sure if it had ever come up on Shaw's radar…

Shaw seemed to be searching his memory. "Oh, yes. Some sort of incident at the lake, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir, precisely. I thought you might be able to tell me if, sometime in the years since I graduated, anyone had ever found it? Seems like it ought to have washed up, eventually. Unless the bloody squid chewed it to shreds, I suppose."

Shaw's gaze seemed to focus, suddenly. Erik hadn't been aware of having only the man's partial attention before, but he certainly had every bit of it now. The unexpected _intensity_ of Shaw's regard almost set Erik back a step. It took Shaw a few seconds longer than it should have to answer. "No, I don't recall anyone reporting a found wand," he said. "I can check the records if you like, make sure."

"I'd appreciate that, sir."

"Why the sudden interest?"

"Well, it was a valuable wand, of course, and rather special to me," Erik said, but that was doing nothing to diminish the sharpness in those snake-like eyes. "I was also thinking how strange it would be to have two wands -- others have done that, of course, but usually one is specialized in some way, whereas mine are -- or would be -- extremely similar to each other. I was thinking--" and he supposed he must _have_ been thinking about this, on some level, to be saying it now, "--that using two well-balanced wands at once might be one way to shield against gunfire, sir. You recall, we were discussing the improbability of ever deflecting a bullet with magic?"

Shaw seemed to relax somewhat, some of the alarming intensity fading from his gaze. "I see. Yes, I can see why you would be particularly interested in such a thing. I very much doubt that two wands would be the answer, but I suppose it's an avenue worth traveling. As I said, I will check the records and see if that old wand of yours ever did turn up."

"Thank you, sir."

"Will that be all, then?"

Erik wracked his brain. He didn't dare look at his watch, but Charles couldn't have had more than fifty of his promised sixty minutes. He had to stall -- but his mind had gone blank under that snake-stare.

"Excellent," Shaw said cheerily, and set off down the corridor.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles really could have used that full hour. Also, Cerebro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference [here](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__7s9GUTM-oY/S_CNQ34HBeI/AAAAAAAAQkY/6ZEpunEDNyk/s1600/lead-fassbender.jpg) for Erik's hair length in this chapter

Minerva McGonagall had been less than pleased, last year, to have her recommended successor passed over in favor of Sebastian Shaw.

"I won't do it," she said very suddenly to Charles, on the last evening (well, morning, by then) of her tenure, when the farewell party was over and it was just the two of them on her balcony, watching the sun come up over mugs of black coffee. "I won't do it. I won't give Dumbledore's password to that psychotic snake. Rightfully instituted headmaster or not, I wouldn't trust the man to feed my goldfish over a weekend. No way on this Earth am I giving him a password that would grant him free rein of the entire school." She speared Charles with a sharp, speculative look, green eyes undimmed by three heart attacks, two wars, and six decades of teaching. She leaned close and whispered, _"Abracadabra."_

The door to the Headmaster's Tower opened to the password without protest, as did the door to Shaw's personal chamber within the Tower. Shaw had felt the need to lock it, even inside the supposed inviolability of Headmaster's Tower; Charles was greatly unsurprised.

The Headmaster's quarters were, naturally enough, significantly larger and grander than the average teacher's rooms, with such luxuries as French doors opening onto a balcony. In Professor McGonagall's day, the rooms had been painfully neat and organized, books and parchments ever-straining to escape and flood the area. Shaw's taste, a mere glance showed, was very different. The front parlor was dominated by a massive leather couch, handsome and uncomfortable-looking, a waist-high globe of the Earth inside a heavy golden frame, and a set of mammoth bookcases lined with gilt-and-leather books on such topics as… butterfly taxonomy and breakfast dishes of the colonial era. Charles was fairly certain he was the first to ever open them.

The front parlor was for receiving guests -- and, apparently, impressing them with pictures of Shaw at the side of such figures as the Minister of Magic and a distinctly annoyed-looking Harry Potter -- so Charles couldn't imagine Shaw hiding anything important there. He gave it a quick sweep anyway, but the only secret he turned up was a slim volume of Victorian-era obscene art hidden behind the butterfly taxonomy.

The next door he opened was the private bath, an opulent forest of mirrors, with an enormous claw-foot bathtub that he would have dearly loved to steal for his own. The second door was Shaw's bedroom. It also had a surprising profusion of mirrors, and a huge, grand, stiff-looking four-poster bed, done in black and white with strangely alarming red accents.

A flicker of movement from the open doorway to the study made Charles freeze, then inch forward, approaching the door with his back pressed to the wall.

The motion, he realized, came from a very large ship-in-a-bottle on a shelf in the study. It held a marvelously detailed sailing vessel that rocked in the waves, sails billowing, pennants snapping. Tiny sailors made their way along the decks, up and down the rigging… As Charles watched, the sea grew rougher, the bottled sky dark and lightning-split. The ship was soon in trouble, sailors washed overboard, sails torn from their places. Charles watched in silent horror as the ship foundered and sank. The clear glass of the bottle hid nothing as the tiny sailors thrashed and struggled in the water… and one by one, went still. Darkness fell.

Shaw, Charles realized, had positioned the bottle where he could see it clearly from his seat behind the big cherry-wood desk.

And Charles himself had wasted ten of his sixty minutes watching it. He refused to pay heed as the sun rose in the bottle, the restored ship sailing merrily towards its doom, but turned his attention to the desk.

This room, he theorized, was Shaw's sanctum, more so somehow than his bedroom. Here much of the posturing and grand gestures were pared away in favor of honest workspace. The surface of the desk bore no ornaments, no knick-knacks, only a thick uneven carpet of books, papers, parchments, quills and inkwells -- Charles peered at them without touching. As chaotic as the piles appeared, it was entirely possible that Shaw knew precisely where and how every page had been left.

Books on administration and leadership… Books on dueling... Star charts… Student records…

Imogen Cox's student record, in fact. Which was, Charles admitted reluctantly, not entirely inexplicable, under the circumstances. But there was Dolly Dursley's record beside it. Evaluating her reliability as a witness, perhaps?

Maps, beside the student records. Maps of the area around Hogwarts, of Scotland in general, of the United Kingdom as a whole, all with diagrams and notations scribbled across them. One that particularly caught his eye featured a precise circle, perhaps drawn with a compass, around the central point of Hogwarts. For reasons he could not define, Charles was disturbed to see that the circle encompassed all of Britain, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, and even clipped bits of France, Belgium, and Norway.

Another parchment caught his eye -- or rather, a single word on that parchment, one that might have meant nothing to someone less familiar ( _not_ obsessed) with the Second Wizarding War.

Dolohov.

Antonin Dolohov had been one of the best fighters among the Death Eaters, very few of whom were slouches when it came to combat magic. The man was long dead now, and he had carried to his grave the secret of his deadliest weapon, a vicious and sometimes fatal curse that he had always performed non-verbally, giving no other wizard the opportunity to learn it.

The parchment on Shaw's desk was a diagram of energy flow such as many researchers and inventers of spells used to map out spells both known and theoretical. Charles himself kept a diagram of _Lumos_ on his wall, for both symbolic and aesthetic reasons.

This diagram was labeled "Dolohov's Curse."

Underneath it were a diagram of the Body-Bind Curse… some sort of attempted diagram of the deadly basilisk's gaze… notations and scribbles on very old parchment concerning spells called _Sectumsempra_ and _Levicorpus_ … Charles pushed his hair back with a shaking hand. _Sectumsempra_ and _Levicorpus_ were Snape's inventions. Shaw _was_ studying Snape's work.

One more diagram, unlabeled. Charles was no expert at reading energy flow, but it was obvious that this was a very nasty piece of work. The longer he looked at it, in fact, the more he thought it might very well be a diagram of _Avada Kedavra_. Charles took a deep breath, sinking into the desk's chair.

His gaze lit on the far right desk drawer, which alone of the desk's half-dozen drawers, bore a lock.

"Abracadabra" worked on drawers, too, as it turned out. How convenient.

The drawer held a sheaf of parchment, a long wooden wand-case, and a framed photograph. In the photo, a man and woman, smiling and relaxed, their hair and clothing speaking eloquently of the 1950s, stood under a flowering tree and passed an excited toddler back and forth between them. Both the man and the woman, in different ways, bore striking resemblances to Sebastian Shaw. Charles stared at the laughing, kicking child in the picture. Mathematics declared that little Sebastian was perhaps 18 months old when his father went to Azkaban. This might have been the last happy moment the family shared.

He set down the photograph and cautiously opened the wand-case. It might well be empty; most teachers carried their wands about as naturally as they wore shoes. But no, there was a wand in the case. Not the one Charles was accustomed to seeing Shaw carry; that one was some kind of silvery pale wood. This one was black, thick and long and sturdy, strangely _familiar_ \--

Cold prickles washed over Charles's skin as the front door swung open with a soft _click-slide_.

How had he lost track of -- no, his watch gave him ten minutes still -- _Erik!_ He closed the wand-case, slid it back into the drawer, trying not to fumble and make some possibly-fatal noise. He closed the drawer, re-locked it with a tap of his wand -- held his breath and _listened_ …

Footsteps, very slow and careful. Suspicious, even. As of someone who has come home to find his door unlocked.

 _Hide hide run hide--_ Where? Under the desk? And suppose Shaw sat down at it? He had to get _out_.

Charles took a slow breath -- _Calm your mind_ \-- and raised his wand straight before him, coaxed focus from his fear -- this was not an easy spell, _focus_ \--

"Veileus Obscuras."

He felt the magic gather in a cloud around him, a clinging shadow that would divert Shaw's eyes -- not perfectly, it would wither under very much direct attention. _I'm invisible as long as you don't look at me…_

If he could just stay unnoticed until he had a clear shot at the front door… Wary of being cornered in the comparatively small study, Charles inched out into the bedchamber, keeping to the edges of the room.

Shaw stepped through the door, wand out, eyes searching. Charles, trying not to breathe, sank back against the wall. Shaw's eyes passed over him without pausing, and he walked by toward the study.

Charles glided into the parlor -- he might be able to close the door behind him quietly enough that Shaw would never --

His toe caught on the edge of the enormous globe with a _thunk_ and a rattle. He choked down his yelp of pain, but too late. Shaw dashed into the room, wand aimed directly at Charles's head.

But his eyes were still unfocused, darting -- he didn't actually _see_ Charles. Heart galloping, Charles held his breath, stood _perfectly_ still…

Shaw's face was a study in doubt, frustration, even a trace of fear -- more honest emotion than Charles could remember ever seeing there before. He wasn't sure whether to feel triumphant or unnerved.

Shaw stepped forward, and Charles perforce stepped back, carefully, silently -- until his back touched the French doors onto the balcony.

Shaw shuffled his wand through his fingers, paced around the room once -- suddenly seemed to remember the balcony, and rushed it. Charles danced backward through the opening doors, inches in front of Shaw.

Shaw made a swift, savage sweep of the balcony, gazed searchingly out onto the grounds for a minute… then swept back inside, locking the French doors behind him.

For several minutes, Charles simply stood there, recovering.

Before he could decide what to do now, it began to rain.

Charles swore viciously under his breath. Rain meant he couldn't Abracadabra his way back inside and make for the door, not without leaving intruder-alert puddles. It also meant Shaw might glance onto his balcony and notice a Charles-shaped space with no rain in it -- no, _no_ , worse. He remembered now, _Veileus Obscura_ was one of those spells that fell apart under running water. Already he could feel it flowing away around him. He had to get off this balcony.

The ground was only, oh, fifteen or twenty stories below. Maybe thirty.

The roof was considerably closer.

Charles stepped up onto the balustrade and steadied himself against the stone wall, feeling for handholds.

 _You have completely lost your mind, Charles Xavier. Are you seriously contemplating climbing a stone wall thirty stories tall, in the_ rain _? You could very, very easily be dead in the next ten minutes. Surely you'd be better off taking your chances with the French doors, or even throwing yourself on Shaw's mercy outright._ But all he could see, when he thought of that, was the glee in Shaw's eyes when Erik fell unconscious to the classroom floor, and the careful diagram of _Avada Kedavra_ on his desk.

He found a handhold, and hoisted himself up.

And stuck there. There were no more handholds. The school had not, after all, been designed as a climbing wall. Many of the stones comprising the walls were taller than Charles, and he simply could not reach the top of them.

There followed more vicious swearing as he tried to figure out how to get back down without making it the last thing he ever did.

_Carefully… carefu--_

He started and nearly fell to his death when a rope flopped into the airspace next to his cheek. He looked up, squinting through raindrops, and saw a man leaning over the edge of the roof. Charles couldn't actually make out his face, but even through the rain he knew the shape of Erik's head and shoulders.

Even with the rope, getting up the wall was treacherous, nerve-wracking work. By the time he reached the top, Charles was aching and breathless and exhausted.

Neither his mind nor his body reacted quickly enough when his foot slipped, at the very edge of the roof.

Erik caught him before he had time to scream. Charles found himself clutched to Erik's chest, almost too tight to breathe, and he was clutching back, bruise-hard, their hearts pounding against each other in counterpoint to the rain.

"Are you all right?" Erik murmured against his temple, after a long, long, far-too-short moment.

Anger boiled, unbidden, under Charles's skin and out his mouth. "Shaw came back _early_ , you incompetent bastard! I ask you to do one _very simple_ thing so that I don't get _killed_ and you muck it up! I should have gotten one of the children -- or Raven -- it's nice, you know, having _one_ person in my life I can trust and count on, too bad it was never you, I should have known better than to--" He locked his teeth over any further such poison, and stood in self-appalled silence.

It came to him that this tirade had, in fact, been delivered mostly into the crook of Erik's neck, since apparently Charles couldn't be bothered to remove himself from Erik's arms before cursing him out. Between that muffling and the rain, perhaps Erik hadn't heard him at all.

He had, though. Charles could tell by the sudden rigidity in his arms and spine. But he didn’t speak, and he didn’t let go. Neither did Charles. In fact, he caught himself – not leaning closer, that was pretty much impossible at this point, but relaxing against Erik, their bodies molding together just as they used to, his eyes drifting closed and his arms twining around Erik’s waist. He managed – barely – maybe – to keep himself from nuzzling Erik’s neck.

_Hail Charles Xavier, King of Mixed Signals. I'm so sorry, love. I wish I could hate you properly, it would be so much less confusing for both of us._

"We should get out of the rain," Erik said at last.

"Indeed we should," Charles said too-heartily, drawing back as far as he could without falling off the roof. His teeth immediately started chattering. "Getting down from here is going to be interesting, with everything so wet." Their usual route to and from the roof, as students, had involved an enchanted rope ladder whose spells were wearing off by graduation. "How did you get up here?"

"Desperation and upper-body strength," Erik said absently. "We could wait out the rain in there." He pointed, and Charles was surprised to see that they were quite close to their old chess-playing hideaway, a gleaming silver dome tucked between towers.

Cerebro.

They made their way cautiously over the slanted, rain-slick roof toward the dome, gripping each other's arms for stability.

"So, Mr. Deputy Headmaster," Erik said over the rain, "did you ever find out what this insane thing was built for?"

"Oh, quite! In fact, I helped use it for its official purpose just a week or so before you arrived. This dome, my friend, is the exact center of Hogwarts Grounds. Chosen to be such because it's a natural nexus of magical energy, enabling just one or two people to cast very powerful spells over a wide area. The Headmaster -- usually with the Deputy's help -- comes here every year to refresh the various protections over the Grounds. The anti-Muggle ward, the anti-Apparation field, and so on."

"So that's why we never got caught," Erik said wryly. "No one ever comes here once the term actually starts?"

"Precisely." They half-slid to a stop in front of the featureless dome. They'd climbed all over it, as boys, trying to figure out the way in -- completely without success, until the day Charles had absently shared a story about a maid from his childhood, Pilar, who had called him Brain Child, _Niño Cerebro_ \--

And a door slid open in the side of the dome.

It had quickly become their secret sanctuary, a marvelously inexplicable little hideaway containing nothing but a white marble altar. Stepping inside now, into the musty air and peculiar shadowless light, with Erik at his side, was… unsettling. Charles had thought, after years of helping with the start-of-the-year spells, that he was done having flashbacks to wicked grins and _"first to lose a pawn takes his shirt off!"_ \-- although, actually, at this moment the memories pressing forward most urgently were less the risque and more the conversational, the endless stream of words that had crossed that chessboard – stories from their childhoods, catching up after holidays apart, arguments about magical theory and professors, food and Quidditch and homework, history, psychology, genetics and ethics and blood purity and the proper way to darn a sock – holding Erik while he cried for his parents on the anniversary of their deaths –

"Great Merlin," Erik muttered, stepping past Charles and reaching into the tiny storage drawer at the base of the altar. "It's still in here. It's still _here_. You've been here four years, you never removed it?"

The travel-size chess set in Erik's hand was even smaller than Charles remembered it. "I only ever came in here with the headmaster or headmistress, and I was hardly going to pull it out _then_." Of course, since he knew the password, he could have come and gotten it at any time. But it seemed a risky, unnecessary thing to do, and what would he do with the chess set once he'd retrieved it? Other than get humiliatingly drunk and cry over it.

All right, so he'd thought about it.

Erik was looking down at the altar with an uneasy expression. "I always thought this thing was… strange. That it couldn't be what it looked like. Now you're telling me it's _exactly_ what it looks like. An altar for the performance of heavy-duty magic."

Charles rolled his eyes, half-consciously taking the chess set from Erik's hand and unfolding the board. "We've never sacrificed so much as a fruit fly, Erik. Altars get a bad rap but they're just focal points, no more inherently evil than a wand."

Erik pulled his own wand from his wet robes and eyed it with a raised brow. "I've been accused of having an evil wand, as it happens. Blackthorns are generally… quite good at the darker spells, should the owner be so inclined. Statistically speaking, a personality like mine with a wand like this is actually pretty alarming."

"As it should be," Charles said drily, laying out the chess pieces – white for himself, black for Erik. "Thank goodness for free will." His hand paused in the middle of placing a pawn on its square. Something in his brain was niggling, something about a wand, a wand that had seemed familiar… It faded before he could get a grip on it.

"What did you find, in Shaw's rooms?" Erik asked. "I do hope nearly getting yourself killed served _some_ purpose."

"Yes, _about_ that—"

"I _tried_ to stall him, I _did_ stall him—"

"Not bloody long enough!"

"Well it's not like I just left you for dead, Charles, why do you _think_ I was on Shaw's roof with a rope?"

Charles gaped. "You were going to… come _get_ me?"

"If necessary, which fortunately proved—"

"Erik, that's _idiotic!_ You can't just – what – swing through Shaw's window like some ape-man and—"

"I bloody well can if it needs doing, although as it happens the plan was—"

"No, no, stop." Charles held up a hand, the other at his temple to quell an incipient headache. "I don't even want to know what your grand, heroic plan was. You are _not_ to get yourself killed on my account, do you hear me? Or any other account, for that matter. _Do_ you hear me?"

Erik just looked at him, and Charles may or may not have caught a mutter about "worse ways to die" before Erik's voice segued smoothly into "I say again, did you find anything?"

Charles took a breath, moved a pawn, and began relating everything he could remember about the hidden treasures of Shaw's rooms – the diagrams, Snape's research, the student records, even the Victorian porn. One never knew what might be relevant.

"Your darling mentor has quite the taste in décor, by the way. He has this nightmare of a ship in a bottle—"

"Oh, yes, I remember that from his office when I was a boy," Erik said cheerfully. "I thought it was fascinating, in a horrible kind of way."

"You were a sad, twisted child."

Erik grinned and did not disagree.

The grin faded into narrow-eyed concentration as he considered the chessboard. His queen was in danger, but saving her would open up one of Charles's favorite paths to checkmate. Charles permitted himself an impish smile as Erik tried to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

It struck him, as it had not since the first hour of Erik's arrival, how much _older_ he looked. That was a bad way of phrasing it, as Erik did not look the slightest bit _old_ , but he certainly did not look like an eighteen-year-old boy any longer. He looked like a _man_ , strong and firm and complete. Charles was usually playfully smug about his boyish looks, but he couldn't help a passing wisp of envy. He was willing to bet no student would ever talk to Professor _Lehnsherr_ in the same tone they used for their tabby kitten.

He really wasn't scary-looking, though, no matter how Charles teased him to the contrary. Well, not unless he was angry, or laughing. With his face at rest, as it was now, too caught up in thought to guard his expression, one could see the beauty of even his sharpest angles and planes, the luminous changeability of his eyes, the surprisingly sensitive contour of his mouth…

 _Yes, Xavier, we all know you think Erik is pretty. You may now move on,_ Charles told himself.

But his eyes weren't quite done, there was still Erik's hair to consider, hints of ginger glinting in the light, just starting to get long enough to curl at the ends… Erik had a pattern when it came to his hair. While Charles kept his at a steady just-a-little-long-by-Muggle-standards, Erik couldn't be bothered to cut his until it got long enough to be annoying, at which point he sheared it nearly down to the skin and started over. The first year of their friendship, Charles had left for Christmas teasing Erik about his long, glorious, girl-worthy locks, and nearly broke down in tears to come back and find it all gone. Right now it was at Charles's favorite stage in the pattern, just barely long enough to get out of control when Erik wasn’t paying attention to it. The perfect length for running one's fingers through, and leaving in a glorious tumbled mess...

"It's not evidence," Erik said, and Charles forced his brain back to the topic at hand. "Shaw has legal access to everything you saw -- the records, Snape's research -- maybe not the diagram of Avada Kedavra, but then again it wasn't labeled, so we can't _prove_ he's doing anything wrong."

Erik, Charles was relieved to see, was not saying any of this in defense of Shaw, only in thoughtful analysis. "Have you heard anything back from your Auror friend? Creed?"

"No. If he's on assignment somewhere, it could take my owl days or even weeks to track him down." Erik sighed, rolled a rook back and forth in his fingers. "We _need_ to talk to an Auror. Investigating Dark Magic is exactly _their_ job, not ours." He set the rook back down, moved a knight instead. "I think we should contact another Auror. _The_ Auror, you might say. The Head of the Office."

Charles choked. "What, _Harry Potter_ himself? Surely--"

"Surely, considering his deep and well-known attachment to Hogwarts and its headmasters, he'd want to either clear or incarcerate a headmaster accused of murder as quickly as possible. Especially with his own children in the danger zone, his own niece already affected--"

"Niece? What, Dolly? You think her Uncle Harry really is _that_ Harry?"

"Have you really not noticed this? The Potter Pack kept their distance from her at first -- she'd always been the whiny Muggle cousin -- but in the aftermath of her... traumatic bereavement, they've definitely circled the wagons. She and Albus are almost each other's shadows, these days -- with Scorpius Malfoy on their heels, of all people. One can only imagine what his father thinks of _that_." Erik cocked his head. "You really hadn't noticed?"

"I've been... distracted, I suppose." Considerably more so than he'd realized, obviously. That was... dismaying. "In any case, perhaps you're right. We'll write to Mr. Potter." It would be almost like writing to the queen, of course. Could they really expect to make contact with a living icon?

"I expect he wipes his backside just like the rest of us," Erik said drily, because he could read the awe and uneasiness on Charles's face without him having to say a word, and Charles experienced a moment of floating unreality. Three months ago he would have laughed, and possibly spat, in the face of anyone who had hinted his future held a moment like this -- playing chess in Cerebro with Erik again, while plotting how best to turn their possibly-student-murdering headmaster over to one of Charles's favorite war heroes.

"What precisely, then, should we write?" Charles said, and they plotted out the letter, sentence by sentence, in between chess moves while the rain drummed on the roof of Cerebro.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik gets a date, and Charles goes shopping.

By the time the rain stopped, they were both chilled and clammy, and Charles was twitchingly anxious about being late for his outing with Raven.

"I absent-mindedly put her in charge of our costumes for the masquerade ball," he sighed as they stepped out of the dome and began inching their way along the wet roof. "That may turn out to be a grave mistake. You remember that extremely _colorful_ get-up with the cape and helmet she tried to get you into that one year…?"

Erik shuddered. "The less said about that, the better."

"But you are coming, aren't you? All the staff are... well, not _required_ , I suppose, but certainly expected. It's our big hurrah, you know, the night before Halloween – before we have to be sober and responsible for the students' ball on Halloween proper."

Erik hadn't given the ball much thought, really, wrapped up in other matters as they'd been. He'd always found balls and parties rather trying – so much pointless small talk, so many unwanted people – but Charles had always been there to make it bearable. And Charles would be there. But not with Erik.

_Not that we ever actually went together anyway, thanks to you..._

They had danced together only once, some six months before their first kiss, at a ball the Hufflepuffs threw at the end of third year. Some Muggle-themed thing, with "oldie" music Erik knew nothing about, and as the night wore on they were both abandoned by their dates – first Charles, when Moira retired early with what turned out to be a nasty bout of flu, then Erik, when Raven left them to go set off strictly-forbidden fireworks at the lake with her friends.

So they found themselves, as midnight neared, in a rapidly thinning ballroom, pleasantly tired and _possibly_ a bit tipsy from vast quantities of butterbeer, the music still going strong, and Charles's eyes sparkling as some particular favorite began playing –

"I still can't believe you've never _heard_ of the Beatles," he said, bobbing his entire body to the beat and singing along -- _"I want to hold your ha-a-a-a-and, I want to hold your hand—"_

So Erik, laughing, had swept him a grand, flourishing bow and held out a hand. "Might I beg the honor of a dance?"

"Certainly not, good sir, I do not dance with the sort of _heathen_ who has never _heard_ of the _Beatles_ \--" But his words cut off with a startled squawk as Erik grabbed him and swept him out onto the dance floor.

 _And when I touch you I feel happy inside_  
It's such a feeling that my love  
I can’t hide, I can’t hide  
I can’t hiiiide

For the duration of the song, they swung each other around the floor, stepping on each other's feet and arguing over who was supposed to be leading, pausing to tip imaginary hats to the students who laughed and cheered at them. Erik even bobbed a curtsy.

The song changed to something slower, but they were both having too much fun to let go, instead shifting into a more proper waltzing position.

 _"Please_ tell me you've heard of Elvis Presley," Charles said, and shook his head in despair at Erik's cheerful "nope." He began singing along in as deep a voice as an undergrown thirteen-year-old could muster, diving into the most romantic lines with exaggerated gusto, _"Wise men say/Only fools rush in/But I can't help/Falling in love with you..."_

At the time, it did not seem especially significant that the hand Erik should have been resting on Charles's back had become an arm around his waist, while Charles's hand on his shoulder had wrapped around the back of his neck. Erik only knew that he felt happy and _good_ in a way he seldom did, and that he liked seeing Charles like this, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and smiling. The shine had worn off the jest of two boys dancing, so no one was watching them, nobody cared. There was no reason for them to stop.

 _Take my hand_  
Take my whole life too  
For I can't help falling in love with you

At the end of the song, Erik playfully attempted a dip, and nearly dropped Charles on his head. He yanked him back up again, both of them emitting highly masculine squeaks of alarm. They stood a moment with their arms tight around each other, hearts pounding from the momentary fright, and then they were laughing and somehow it became a hug, fierce and happy, and on a deep mammalian level that Erik didn't examine too closely, he knew it was the best thing to happen to him in a long, long time and he didn't want to ever stop.

Eventually, Charles squirmed free of the hug, still smiling, and Erik ruffled his hair and called him _Maus_ and Charles hit him in the stomach and said, "Let's go find some food."

By the next dance, a year later, the situation had shifted considerably. Charles and he were very much more than friends, but Erik was determined that no one could know it.

_"What, because we're boys? It's a boarding school, Erik, I hardly think we're the first – in fact, I'm pretty sure there's a pair of Gryffindor girls – and you know there's rumors that Dumbledore himself—"_

_"That's not the reason, Charles, I swear. If it was only that, I'd shout about us from the rooftops."_

__(And yet they'd always used girls as covers, never other boys, hadn't they, and thanks to a careful evasion of pronouns even Magda had never known that his 'high school sweetheart' was male. An uncomfortable realization, that he may have lied to Charles. He'd never meant to do that.) __

_Charles had narrowed eyes that were so often too perceptive for Erik's comfort. "It's the other Slytherins, then, isn't it? You don't want them to know you're consorting with a Muggle-born."_

_"I just think it would cause_ trouble, _Charles, unnecessary trouble, for both of us – you don't know what a nightmare they could make of_ your _life, trying to scare you off me..." He brushed the back of his fingers down Charles's cheek, assayed a teasing smile. "And admit it, not all your friends would be thrilled about you seeing a Slytherin."_

_Charles winced, hesitated – and in hesitating was lost, the agreement made._

Thanks to this stupidity of Erik's, they never again danced together openly. Only in stolen moments, dark corners, outside windows and under stairs – a tight embrace, a quick spin, a lingering kiss, then back to the arms of the girls who, knowingly or not, covered their secret. Often Moira and Raven, but not always; Charles insisted on that, on not misleading the girls into thinking they were serious about them. So they went to dances with casual friends, convenient classmates, friends' shy sisters – and lived for those stolen moments under the stairs.

"You'll write the letter, then, while I'm painting the town with Raven?" Charles said, startling Erik out of his thoughts as they approached their old route to and from the roof – one of the observation decks off the Astronomy tower. Their old rope ladder was still hidden there, tattered and frayed; it would never hold their weight now.

"I'll write it," Erik said, "but I want you to see it before it's sent. You were always better at wordsmithery than me." The rope he'd dropped for Charles was wound around his arm; he unwound it now and attached one end of it to the roof with a murmured "Affixio."

 _"That's_ handy," Charles said.

Erik grinned. "Turned up in the lost and found at my old job. Got an iPod that way, too."

"You have an _iPod?"_

"It doesn't work on Hogwarts grounds. Do you want to go first, or shall I?"

"You go right ahead, my friend. If your wonderful magical rope gives way, I'll try my best to catch you."

Erik eyed Charles's 5-foot-7-inch frame and raised an eyebrow. "How comforting."

Erik reached the observation deck without incident; Charles, whose musculature reflected a more decidedly academic lifestyle, struggled a good deal more, and only Erik's steadying grip on his hips got him safely down.

Neither of them commented on that. Which was just as well, considering how rough Erik's voice came out on the counterspell ("Detaccio") as he tugged the rope free.

They parted ways at the foot of the Astronomy stairs, and Erik had almost made it to his chambers unseen when he turned a corner and nearly ran over Madam Salvadore, the flying instructor. He vaguely remembered her, of course, from his school years – a fellow Slytherin, three or four years younger – but he'd never felt a need to pursue a closer acquaintance.

He immediately perceived, on stepping back from her with a mumbled apology, that this indifference was one-sided.

"Erik, I've been _looking_ for you!" she exclaimed, one hand somehow getting a grip on his arm. Her gaze traveled up and down his rain-soaked robes with a somewhat predatory delight. "Actually, I've been meaning to get a moment of your time for days now. I was wondering, um, do you have a costume for the Halloween Ball yet?"

"No..." Erik stared down into hopeful dark eyes.

"Great! I happen to have an extra costume. Matching mine, of course. If you want to go together."

Well, he _would_ need a costume, and it wouldn't be easy to come up with one this late in the game... And going with Angel would save him the embarrassment of showing up alone... "All right," he said weakly.

She grinned, practically bouncing with joy. "Awesome! Come to my quarters tonight after dinner, you can try it on, make sure we have time to make adjustments – You're so _tall_ , after all—"

"Sure," he said, and tried not to feel too guilty as she bounced off down the corridor.

 _How are you going to explain_ this _to Charles?_ asked a little voice in his head.

 _Charles,_ said a sharper, angrier voice – one that had once said _"you bloody well abstained" – Charles has no leg to stand on, having made no move to secure you for himself. And if seeing you with Angel makes him regret that inaction, all the better._

\---

Raven had been waiting by the Hogsmeade coach for twenty minutes -- just long enough for concern to start tinting her impatience -- when Charles finally showed up, breathless and rumpled and wet-haired.

"Sorry," he said brightly. "Got caught in the rain, had to shower and change. Shall we?"

Caught in the rain? Hadn't he said he was going to be grading papers all morning? Frowning, Raven let her brother hand her up into the coach. They had it to themselves today, which surprised her. It was only two days until the Halloween masquerade ball -- surely she and Charles weren't the only ones still costume-shopping? Then again, maybe they were. Heaven knew _she_ wouldn't have waited this long, if she could have pinned Charles down any sooner.

And speaking of pinning him down, the idiot man was all but floating away again even now, staring out the window with faraway eyes.

"So, our costumes," Raven said. "I was thinking simple black masks, very classic."

"Sure."

"And nothing else. It would be sort of a statement -- hiding our faces, but not our bodies. Very avant-garde, don't you think?"

"Of course."

"And you're so fair-skinned, quite a contrast with the black mask, you could probably moonwalk the fruit pie refrigerator."

"Mm-hmm."

She scowled and snapped her fingers under Charles's nose.

"Gah! What? Sorry, what, Raven, I _am_ listening--"

"You are not even remotely listening. You are on some other planet populated by you, Erik, and whatever has had the two of you so secretive and upset the last few days."

"A little girl is dead, Raven. I think that's more than enough for us to be upset about."

"No. That's not it. You think I don't know what it looks like when you two are keeping secrets from me?" This was not, she told herself firmly, about the old days of feeling like a third wheel on their happy little bicycle. This was about something that was happening _now_.

Charles, to her surprise and even dismay, was not denying it, only staring at her rather wistfully. "I wish I could tell you," he said. "It would help, I think, to have another pair of eyes on the problem, but... I can't, Raven. I can't get you caught up in this."

"I live here, Charles, same as you. I fail to see how I can _not_ be caught up in anything involving Hogwarts."

Charles was shaking his head before she stopped speaking. "This is different. This requires... delicacy, and I love you, Raven, but delicate you are not. This situation is a china shop--"

"And I'm a bull." Raven gave sulky, frustrated exhalation, morphing her nose into a bull's snout for the occasion, and crossed her arms huffily. "Fine. Keep your secrets."

 _And who,_ said a little voice in her head, _are you to talk about secrets, with that ten-year-old envelope in the bottom of your sock drawer?_

 _I did the right thing, I_ did, she told herself. She looked over at Charles, now gazing out the window again, and saw him for a moment as he'd been ten years ago -- deathly pale, half-starved and shaking as he emerged from his bedroom in daylight hours for the first time in six weeks -- smiling at her over the table as she forced food into him, a weak smile but sincere, not black and icy and bitter, his first _real smile_ since graduation -- _No, I did the right thing. Giving it to him then just would have sent him right back into the abyss._

And now? What excuse did she have for keeping it from him now?

They rode the rest of the way to Hogsmeade in silence. Charles seemed to shake himself awake as the coach let them off in front of Gladrags Wizardwear.

"So what did you have in mind for costumes?" he asked.

"Not sure yet. I have to see what they have." She cocked her head at an array of peacock feathers displayed in the window, alongside the domino masks. _"That_ has possibilities. Peacock blue and green... we both look good in blue..."

"Good heavens, are those Christmas decorations? Already?" Charles squinted suspiciously at the red-and-green ornaments on the eaves of the shop next door. "It's not even Halloween!"

"Oh, don't start, Charles, you sound more like an old man every day." She held up a length of green cloth, morphed her arm to match it, then wrinkled her nose and put it back down.

"Masks first, don't you think?" Charles said. "Speaking of Christmas, though, are we going home this year?"

"If you want to." Raven would just as soon stay at Hogwarts, most years, but it wouldn't do to go _too_ long without visiting her benefactors, Sharon and Brian Xavier. Benefactors, not parents, for all that she'd jumped at the chance to claim Charles as her brother. It wasn't that she was ungrateful to them for adopting her on nothing more than Charles's request. They were kind people, in their way, but their kindness was too distant and careless, absent-minded and neglectful, for her to love them as she perhaps should. They could never replace her biological mother and father, even as screwed-up as they'd been, and frankly she could think of better ways to spend the holiday than watching Charles try desperately, still, after all these years, to get their attention.

That didn't keep her from acknowledging that the Xaviers had done her more good materially, and Charles more good emotionally, than any blood relative ever had. And she wasn't going to sit by and watch him break his heart over Erik Lehnsherr all over again, not if she could help it.

That envelope could just stay in her sock drawer a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dance Flashback Soundtrack!
> 
> [I Want To Hold Your Hand](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55CE4eM2mq8)   
>  [I Can't Help Falling In Love With You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9rDBohg1yc)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a letter is written, and another is delivered.

Safely in his rooms at last, Erik showered and changed, and sat down to write the letter to Potter, reconstructing it as much as he could from the sentences they'd agreed upon. He'd have to borrow an Owlery bird to send it, Esther not having returned yet, and Charles not having an owl at all.

Which was not to say he didn't have an animal; Charles had started at Hogwarts with a gorgeous little Siamese kitten who was now a very elderly Siamese cat, stiff and sickly and ill-tempered. Charles often spent a good chunk of their chess time getting Juliet comfortable by the fire, warming her dinner and administering her medicine, crooning and murmuring to her and massaging her arthritic hips. Erik took a strange pleasure in watching Charles fuss over her. He always looked so _happy_.

 _Focus, Lehnsherr._ There were more important things right now than Charles, eyes soft and smiling in the firelight, propped on one elbow and murmuring _love you, my little one, there's my sweetheart…_

Theoretically more important, anyway.

Erik labored over the letter for two hours, throwing a half dozen drafts into the fire. It had to hit the right note of urgency (lest it be ignored) but not panic (as hysteria might also be ignored).

It came to him, halfway through the seventh draft, in a rush that left the quill quivering in his unsteady fingers, that he was siccing the Aurors on _Sebastian Shaw_. His mentor. Shaw, alone had cared enough to extract him from that orphanage, who had saved his sanity and his soul by bringing him to Hogwarts, who had taken the time and effort to monitor – and fund – his education, had ushered him into a highly respectable career when he was too sick with Charles's absence to do it for himself, who had taken him as pet and protégé when no one else cared if he lived or died. Yes, the man was strange and sometimes disturbing, but that changed nothing about the debt Erik owed him.

Did he owe him enough to cover up a child's murder?

Did he owe him enough to let Charles face him alone?

Because even Erik could not dissuade Charles from acting against a perceived threat to his students. Withdrawing his support from the enterprise would only ensure Charles's vulnerability to Shaw's vengeance, once he discovered who had accused him. That remained true whether the man was actually guilty or not.

And was he guilty? Erik had no idea. He didn't want to believe it. Perhaps, in his deepest heart, he _didn't_ believe it. But there was too much… not evidence… but too many _indicators_ for him to ignore in good conscience. More importantly, there were too many indicators for _Charles_ to ignore. And he had to protect Charles. Even from Shaw.

Of course, this necessity of protecting Charles brought up all manner of old aches and stings, his childish conviction that his parents' deaths had been somehow his fault, his failure, that if he had been there he could have protected them. He, a nine-year-old child barely able to hold his own wand, protect two full-grown, well-trained, highly skilled wizards. Against a Muggle weapon that no known spell could counter.

 _That,_ now, was a problem that someone ought to solve. It was intolerable to think of himself, of his students, of Charles, being so vulnerable to a mere bit of metal. There had to be a way to shield against bullets, if only he could play around with them, see what _didn't_ work and why…

For that, of course, he would need a gun.

Erik looked down at the letter to Potter, finished at last, then at the clock, which agreed with his stomach that it was past time for some nourishment. Then out his window, where he could just make out the cottage of the Hogwarts Groundskeeper, a hot-tempered young man who had, at one time, been closely connected with the Muggle crime world.

Perhaps Alex Summers would like to take tea.

\---

Charles had been distant and distracted throughout the shopping trip, waking up into his usual charming, laughing self at intervals only to fall back into his funk moments later. Raven didn't know whether to be more angry or frightened. Something big was going on. Something he thought was too dangerous to tell her about.

 _But he can tell_ Erik _about it,_ Erik _who treated him like dirt and made fun of him to his pureblood friends,_ that's _who Charles thinks he can trust._ She watched Charles staring out the window as the coach rumbled up the drive toward Hogwarts. "Aren't you angry?" she burst out. "How can you not be angry at him?"

"What?"

"You play chess, you have dinner, you hang out, you keep secrets! It's like you've totally forgotten what he _did_ to you! Charles, how can you forgive him so easily?"

"Who says I have?"

"Your _actions_ say you have. If you two aren't bosom buddies, you're sure doing a great impression of it. _Please_ tell me you're not sleeping with him again."

Charles's mouth dropped open. "Raven, that is really _none_ of your business at all!"

"Oh, good, you're not. That's something anyway. But I don't understand how you can even talk to him!"

"Raven..." Charles rubbed his forehead, as if staving off a headache. "He was just a kid then, Raven."

"Oh, really? He's changed, then? He's different now?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Charles admitted.

Raven drew breath to continue, but the coach was stopping. She let the breath out as a growl of frustration, gathering up their shopping bags. Charles took the heavier ones and followed her in silence, through hallways and up staircases to her room.

She dropped her bags haphazardly on the floor and went to stoke the fire, still fuming. Behind her, she could hear Charles setting down his bags, arranging them all neatly in a corner, crossing the room to the cabinet where she kept a tumbled assortment of tea bags, coffee beans and cocoa tins. Then the movement-noises stopped, and after a moment she turned to see him standing with one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, forehead pressed to the cabinet as if he could barely hold himself up.

"You're right, of course," he said, voice strained. "But you've never -- I don't mean to throw this in your face, Raven, but you've never been in love, not yet. You don't know what it's like, to be willing to give _anything_ to be with someone, even if it's undignified, even if it's _wrong_..."

Raven swallowed, looked away. "You do still love him, then." Not that she hadn't known. Anyone could see it, could see the way his eyes sparkled all the time now, when Erik was around, even when he was angry -- like they had in school, like she had thought they never, ever would again. She thought Erik had killed that.

"Of course I do. I told you ten years ago that I always would."

 _Yes, but I hoped you were wrong. I hoped you would find someone else, someone better._

There was a long silence before Charles spoke again.

"I think what bothers me more than anything," he said distantly, "more than... things that _should_ bother me more, is that he never wrote to apologize. Never. He's so angry at _me_ for breaking off contact -- why did _he_ never write? If he loved me so bloody much, why did he never even _try_ to get me back?" His voice broke.

Raven bit her lip. "You said, at the time, that if he wrote you'd just burn it, you wouldn't even read it."

Charles tilted his head up and laughed, joylessly, water winking at the edge of one eye. "I said that, yes. And I waited and waited, didn't I, for a letter to burn. And it never came."

Raven's throat felt too tight to swallow, too tight to breathe. This was her brother, her kind, patient, beautiful brother, in tears, and she wanted to hate Erik for making him cry -- but it wasn't Erik's fault, this time, was it.

"I have to tell you something, Charles," she said, before she could lose her nerve, before she could talk herself out of it again, and felt as lightheaded as if she were stepping off a cliff. "I won't say 'don't be angry' because you will be and you should be. But I want you to _understand_ \-- I was so scared for you, Charles, you weren't eating or sleeping or talking, you just laid there like a dead thing, you didn't even _cry_ after the first few days, and your parents wouldn't do _anything_ \-- and then you were just starting to come back to yourself, and I was so afraid of what it would _do_ to you. I was afraid you really would burn the letter and then regret it forever, and I was more afraid that you'd read it and go crawling right back to him. I knew just _seeing_ it would destroy everything you'd managed to rebuild. I didn't know what to _do_."

Charles's face had changed at the word _letter_ , going pale and still, progressing, moment by moment, to white and frozen. Only his eyes were alive, burning with fury and hope and relief and terror and _fury_ \--

"Give me the letter, Raven." His voice was clipped, hard, emotionless.

Raven stepped over to her sock drawer and fumbled through it with numb hands. There it was, the envelope ivory-edged with years, ink faded. She handed it to Charles, felt the subtle tremor in his hands.

"I need you to leave now, please," he said, and she went, head bowed, without a word.

 

  
Charles sat down heavily at Raven's table, stared at the pale envelope against the rich mahogany of the wood. Traced a fingertip over Erik's handwriting, barely touching. Stared down at the letter as minutes turned into hours, as the sun slowly sank outside the window. Then tucked it, still sealed, into the inside pocket of his cardigan, over his heart, and went down to dinner.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik and Charles each hear a certain amount of gossip, with varying levels of enjoyment.

Erik slid into the seat next to Charles at the staff table, passing the letter to Potter into Charles's hand in the same movement. He took it without changing expression. Which expression was, Erik realized, entirely odd, haggard and dazed, almost panicky.

"Charles? Are you all right?"

"I d-don't feel very well, actually," Charles replied. "I… do believe I'll retire early."

"You should eat something," Erik said, gesturing at the heaping plates of food that had appeared before them just as he arrived.

"I'll just – take something with me –" He plucked a cheese roll from his plate and turned to go. "I'll see you later?"

"Of course."

"Here, Charles, take mine too," Raven said, holding out her own cheese roll, but Charles gave no sign of having noticed her. Erik frowned, watching Charles leave, then turned to Raven, who, he realized, also looked miserable, her eyes puffy and her hair gone limp and colorless as it did when she was distressed.

"Did you two have a row?" Erik asked, but Raven's answer, if she gave one, was lost as Angel Salvadore plopped into Charles's vacated seat.

"Sorry I'm late, Erik! Are we still on for tonight?"

Raven leaned around Angel's shoulder to give Erik a look of open-mouthed outrage, which was a bit rich from someone who wanted him to disappear from Charles's life entirely. Erik's only reply was a defiant glare.

"Yes, of course," he said pleasantly to Angel. "I can't stay long, though."

"First year teacher, say no more." Angel put up a hand. "Never enough hours in the day. I promise, your evenings will be slightly more your own next year. In the meantime, at least we have _one_ night of fun coming up!"

"Yeah," Erik said, mind bouncing between Raven's glare, Charles's absence, and Angel sitting too close so that their arms brushed. "I'm sure it'll be magical."

 

"What do you think?" Angel said, opening her wardrobe with a flourish. On the backs of the double doors hung the costumes, masses of black silk and white ruffles that made Erik blink. They had a distinctly Victorian air, but artfully tattered; Angel's skirt was little more than silken rags, and Erik doubted that a real Victorian maiden would wear her corset on the _outside_. The male outfit was shabby enough to match, but only just.

"I think I can handle it," he said.

"You don't have to make it sound like such a hardship," Angel said, shoving him playfully. "The bathroom's through there -- go put it on, let's see how it fits." She waggled her eyebrows. "You sure me yours, I'll show you mine."

He smiled politely and retreated into the bathroom, relieved that she wasn't making some attempt at undressing him herself. It took some doing to figure out all the different layers and buttons, and at the end of it there were still a few pieces he wasn't sure what to do with, including a long cape with red lining (was he _doomed_ to capes?) and what might have been a cravat.

"Oh, I'll help you with all that," Angel said when he stepped out of the bathroom. "But _don't_ you carry it well! Come here, come here." She tugged him over to the mirror, but then said, "No, don't look yet, let me fix you up," and went to work on the cravat."

She had changed clothes, too, as promised, and the result was more revealing than he had expected. He caught flashes of thigh with every step, and if she sneezed, she was going to cause a scandal. Someone else, perhaps, could have carried it off gracefully, but Angel just looked like a stripper. He tried not to cringe noticeably away, and then wondered at his own negative reaction. Angel was an attractive woman, and as an adult at least, his sexual experiences had, in fact, been mostly with women. He would have expected to be experiencing at least an aesthetic enjoyment of Angel, but he wasn't.

It was two things, he decided. First, while Angel _was_ attractive, she was not at all his type; he preferred women who were quiet, elegant, striking, witty. Like Magda. _Never mind that you apparently like your_ men _little and cute, that's not relevant here._ Second, when he looked at Angel, he had a hard time dissociating the woman before him from the little girl he remembered -- a bossy little loudmouth for whom he had felt only a distant annoyance.

No, there was another reason, trumping all others. She wasn't Charles. He had dated many women who were not Charles, of course, but only when Charles was far away, lost to him, a painful memory he tried not to prod at. With Charles _here_... no one else could truly capture his attention.

"There!" Angel stepped back, grinning, and presented Erik with his reflection.

Erik was surprised to see that he cut a rather dashing figure. The red-pinstripe waistcoat emphasized all the right places, and the cape lent him a wholly undeserved drama that, like the long lacy cuffs, felt both ridiculous and secretly exciting. Despite himself, Erik grinned.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Angel pressed a walking-stick into his hand, and stood on tiptoe to drop a top hat onto his head.

"Is _that_ really necessary?"

"Yes," Angel firmly. "Now try that smile again. You look like Jack the Ripper. Excellent! Now let's look at this fit -- the waistcoat is _perfect_ \-- well, maybe a tuck there -- and yep, yep, the trousers are too short, let me measure..." She dropped to her knees, skirts and all, and whipped out a tiny tape-measure.

"So, um," Erik said, looking awkwardly down at the top of her head, "how did you end up teaching here? You must be the youngest member of the faculty."

"I sure am! Professor Shaw got me in. When my Quidditch career tanked--"

"Quidditch career?" Erik blurted.

"Oh, that's right, it was after you graduated. I was Slytherin Seeker for a few years. Couldn't make it in the big time, though." She sounded resigned. "Professor Shaw had been having some problems with the flying instructor here, anyway, said he wanted someone he could trust to follow orders, so... It was win-win."

"I didn't know you and Shaw were close."

"He was there for me when I needed him -- my last few years of school were tough. It's so refreshing to finally have a headmaster who's willing to face reality and try to keep the Muggle-borns under control." She said this so matter-of-factly, with more exasperation than malice, that it took Erik a moment to fully realize what she'd said. He must have stiffened, because she looked up at him in surprise. "Did I shock you? Sebastian said you were trustworthy, that you were on our side..."

"Um. I didn't realize you... felt so strongly..."

"I didn't give it a great deal of thought, I guess, until those last couple years of school. My, um... my father's side of the family are Muggles -- _he's_ a wizard, though, it's just _them_ \-- and there was some... unpleasantness. Got myself disowned for being a freak. I was pretty upset about it, but Professor Shaw was a lot of help. Showed me that I didn't belong with them anyway, and that there was nothing _wrong_ with that. I understand now, you can't let those people get to you. _Their_ opinions don't matter."

"Because we're better than them," Erik ventured.

"Exactly!" Angel beamed and squeezed his hands for a moment. "I knew you understood."

He _did_ understand, of course he did. Angel _was_ better than the Muggles who rejected her and ought never to forget it. Her other option was, what, to crawl belly-up to her Muggle relatives and beg their forgiveness for having magic? Never.

And yet, somehow the thought was… disturbing, the thought of Shaw filling a devastated teenage girl's moldable mind with the idea that she was better, stronger, more worthy, by virtue of a single genetic quirk... a devastated girl or a lonely German orphan... Shaw could have told them _anything,_ that was the kicker, anything that made them feel less broken, and they would have swallowed it whole, true or not. Just because someone desperately wanted to believe something didn't make it true.

What would Charles have told him, he wondered suddenly. If it somehow been Professor Xavier, rather than Professor Shaw, who brought him to Hogwarts... Probably would have given him some claptrap about forgiving your enemies and loving yourself. And maybe it would have made a fool out of Erik, as Shaw believed, a soft stupid useless fool. But it might have made him into someone kind enough, good enough, for Charles to love. That might be worth being a fool.

"You didn't really notice me in school, did you?" Angel was saying wistfully, measuring his arms now. "Of course, I must have seemed like a baby to you, and you always had the most glamorous girls on your arm -- Raven Darkholme, Primrose Parkinson, Clara Clearwater... But I guess none of them worked out in the end? Goodness knows Raven doesn't seem in a hurry to pick you back up."

Erik snorted. "Only if she could then drop me off a roof."

Angel laughed. "Can't say I'm sorry for it, myself. Raven's all right – half-bloods can go either way, you know, and she spends so much time with Muggle-borns, it's surprising she turned out so well – but I do have to wonder about her taste in men. Trade _you_ in for that beanpole Hank McCoy – he's cute, I guess, in a gawky kind of way, not my cup of tea at all. Turn a bit, like that, thanks…" She was measuring the circumference of his hips now, which was, he suspected – since the trousers fit fine in the waist – solely for her own amusement. "Not that he asked her to the ball, you understand, too shy for that, even though she'd have said yes in a heartbeat. No, he keeps mum and poor Raven's stuck going with her brother again. Which is sort of a laugh even if they _weren't_ more-or-less related, because it's so screamingly obvious about Charles."

Erik felt his teeth clench. "What's obvious?"

"That he's queer as a nine-bob note! Ugh, listen to me using a Muggle-ism – but don't tell me you haven't picked up on that, the amount of time you two spend together – which, by the way, I understand, even if Professor Shaw doesn't. The man's good company, witty and charming and all. It must be hard for you to find people who can stand up to you in conversation. A crying _shame_ he's so verrrry Muggle-born, it’s like it leaks out of his pores. Which Shaw has a theory about, actually -- has he told you this? He says more Muggles and Muggle-borns come out, well... like Charles... as a... how did he put it? Something about the universe trying to protect itself by not letting Muggle-borns reproduce. I don't know, it didn't actually make much sense to me. I've known wizards who were like that, too, after all. And you know what? I think he's wrong." She nodded to herself, chin defiant but eyes nervous. Disagreeing with Shaw, Erik theorized, was not something she did frequently. "I think Charles is a great guy and a great teacher, Muggle-born or not, and it's a _shame_ he won't have kids because he'd be a great father. You must think so, too, right? I mean, you're friends with him, right?"

Erik didn't answer. He wasn't sure he could speak right now without snarling.

"Right," Angel said nervously. "Um. Well, at least poor Moira finally caught on – she'd been mooning over him for years, you know, which is a little weird since she's older, but apparently that's just how she rolls because Sean Cassidy's even younger than Charles." She stepped behind Erik, possibly out of self-defense, and measured the width of his shoulders. "Cassidy's a pureblood, though, so it's hard to get behind that idea. I mean, it's not like Moira's even subtle about being Muggle-born, you'd think she was _proud_ of it, I hear she _begged_ to be allowed to teach Muggle Studies – blegh, you couldn't pay me enough. Here, hold still, I can just pin this... Cassidy doesn't seem to care, though, which I guess makes sense – his mother was a Weasley, if you can't tell with that hair, and they're not exactly notorious for guarding the bloodline. Okay, almost ready. Just need our masks!"

She rummaged in the wardrobe for a moment, then returned with two masquerade half-masks, both black with swirling white ornamentation. One was shaped like a pair of butterfly wings; Angel pressed that one to her face and handed the other to Erik. He followed suit, and felt a brief tingle of magic as the mask sealed to his skin.

"I'll get all the alterations done tonight," Angel said, "but it's mostly pinned into place now, so you should have a pretty good idea how it'll look." She stepped up to Erik's side, put her arm through his, and gave a satisfied sigh. "There! Don't we just go together perfectly?"

 _No,_ Erik thought. _I don't think we do._

\---

Charles forced down the cheese roll and chased it with some tea, trying not to notice the crinkle of the letter in his pocket every time he moved, the weight of it against his chest. There was a more urgent letter to be dealt with now.

Erik had done well, overall, with the letter to Harry Potter; Charles corrected the spelling of one word, tweaked a phrase in the last paragraph, signed his name beneath Erik's, and it was done. Before he could overthink it, he carried it straight to the Owlery and sent it off.

It was still nagging at his mind that he hadn't noticed Dolly Dursley's induction into the Potter Pack. What else had he not noticed? Rather than return to his empty quarters -- or worse, return to find Erik waiting in his quarters -- _coward, Xavier_ \-- he made his way to the Ravenclaw common room. Dinnertime was over by now, and his prefects were always happy to fill him in on the gossip.

 

The Ravenclaw common room was in _chaos_. Two teams of boys -- half of them without shirts on -- were batting something like a tiny perpetual explosion back and forth, shouting and running, trampling furniture, homework, and smaller students, while a third-year girl, levitating at the ceiling (apparently against her will) screamed for help. A group of first-years had a terrified house-elf cornered under a table and were trying to give it clothes.

 _"Everybody stop,"_ Charles snapped, amplifying his voice with a twitch of his wand.

The room fell silent, one boy toppling over and breaking a chair as he tried to freeze in his tracks.

"Hi, Professor X," Dominique Weasley said in a tiny, sheepish voice. Her hair was frazzled and her eyes looked shadowed and sleepless.. Poor 'Minique, she had doubtless tried her best to keep things under control in his mental absence.

"Hello, sweetheart," he sighed. "You four, let the poor house-elf go. Immediately. Yes, I know, internalized oppression, et cetera, we'll talk about it later. You boys, put your clothes back on.. What is that thing?" The tiny explosion, dropped on the floor, was beginning to singe the carpet. "Wait, don't even tell me, it came from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes? I'm shocked. Whoever owns that abomination, douse it or lock it away or whatever will keep it out of my sight and away from flammable materials. Clarissa, darling, don't cry, I'm going to get you down."

With some semblance of order restored, he set the boys to setting the room to rights, while he fixed the chair and a few other bits of damaged furniture with a quick _Reparo_.

"I really tried to stop them, Professor," Dominique said meekly.

"I'm sure you did, sweetheart, don't worry about it. I know I haven't been around as much as you're accustomed to."

"Well, of course things have been... you know, demanding. With Imogen Cox and everything."

"Yes, well, I have a duty to the _living_ students as well. Come on, 'Minique, tell me all the news. How are things with your... goodness, what is Dolly to you? Cousin of a cousin..."

"We've declared her an honorary Weasley cousin, probationary status," Dominique said, "We call her Probie," and proceeded to follow him throughout Ravenclaw Tower, chattering about everything he could possibly want to know about the Potter Pack and the Ravenclaws as he inspected the dormitories, patting heads and kissing the occasional skinned knee, both figurative and literal. He could feel his mind filing away details of what he saw and heard, to be properly catalogued and interpreted during a long-overdue Divination session. He should have time for that in the morning.

"And that's about everything, really," Dominique said at last. By this time they were sitting on a couch in the restored common room, with three students making up a board game as they went along at the table behind them, and the traumatized house-elf still trying to build up the fire with shaking hands. "What about you, Prof?"

"Me? Oh, you know, all manner of official... unpleasantness. Inevitable, when there's a student death."

"You seem to have made a new friend this year," Dominique said, perhaps a little teasingly.

Charles forbade himself to blush, but could feel his ears warming anyway. "I suppose you mean Eri – Professor Lehnsherr."

"Mm-hmm. Also known as Professor LandShark, Meanest Teeth in All Britain."

"He's not mean, not really. Um, is he?"

"Sometimes," Dominique said drily, "especially if you're stupid. He's getting better, though." She raised an eyebrow. "Almost like he had a mellowing influence or something."

"I try," Charles admitted.

"Well, try harder. Exams will be here before you know it and we need him all happy and relaxed by then."

Charles cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. Looking forward to the Halloween masquerade? Do you have your costume ready?"

Dominique smiled wolfishly and consented to the change in topic. The conversation became more enjoyable, and by the time Charles made his way back to his own rooms, it was almost possible to forget the weight of the letter over his heart.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik does not understand why Charles won't shoot at him.

Dawn, in Charles's experience, was the best time for a Divination reverie. He rolled out of bed, paused only to rinse his mouth and throw on his slippers, then opened the window wide to the chilly October sunrise and assumed lotus position on the floor in front of it.

He tried to keep his mind from fully waking, without actually going to back to sleep. The idea was to listen to his subconscious, to let it 'connect the dots' of information he'd acquired both consciously and not, and form it into a picture he might never have otherwise seen. He focused on slow, even breathing, kept his spine straight, and let the words, worries, and sensory impressions of the last few days tumble unimpeded through his mind.

 _Read the letter,_ his mind urged him, _you should read Erik's letter right now,_ but he pushed past that. He wasn't deep enough in, yet, to trust what his mind told him.

At the end of ten minutes, he realized one of his Ravenclaws _(poking at her plate -- face thinner since start of term -- grades dropping -- faint smell of vomit when she spoke, not enough to notice at the time)_ was developing an eating disorder. He would take her to Madam Pomfrey. She would know what to do.

At fifteen minutes, he realized two of his seventh-years were romantically involved and trying to hide it _(longing looks -- excuses to touch -- how very familiar, but why -- she's Muggleborn, oh dear, his grandmother was a Black)_. Perhaps he should stay out of it but he probably wouldn't.

At twenty-five minutes, something began to build, delicately, tiny 'dots' that faded if he looked directly at them -- like faint stars -- _star chart -- piled papers -- drowning, men drowning in a bottle -- star chart -- wand,_ important _\-- ink on parchment -- lines, swirls, notations -- star chart -- October -- WAND --_

A knock at the door shattered his concentration, and Charles suddenly re-inhabited his gasping, shivering body. What idiot had opened the window?

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he snarled, when the knock sounded again before he could get to the door. He didn't have the presence of mind, yet, to wonder who it was and if he should be alarmed.

It was Erik. And he was grinning.

"Get dressed, Charles, come outside with me," he said. "Good heavens, what idiot opened your window? It's freezing out there."

"What? What do you want?" His voice sounded slurred, his brain _felt_ slurred, he was sure it wasn't good for him to be knocked out of trance like that.

Erik chuckled and mussed his hair. "Get some coffee and put on something warm. I need you to help me with something."

Charles turned away and began fumbling with his teapot, muttering about _help you, help you right out the window, laugh at your splattered corpse_. Erik laughed again, shut the window and tucked a blanket around Charles's shoulders.

"Did you read the letter?"

 _"What?"_ Charles whirled, feeling the blood drain from his face.

Erik jerked back, frowned. "The letter, Charles. To Potter?"

"Right." Charles sagged a bit, tried not to pant. "Of course. Yes, it was fine, I sent it off already. Corrected your spelling a bit."

Erik looked at him strangely, but ventured a smile. "I would expect nothing less."

 

The sun was only just up when Charles found himself out on the grounds, on a hillside out of any clear view from the castle, with Erik handing him a gun.

He blinked down at it. It felt cold, and heavy, and quite solid. Probably not a hallucination. _.22 caliber,_ some part of his mind catalogued automatically. _Kimber Rimfire. Good hunting pistol._

"Erik," he said flatly. "What. The. Devil."

"I borrowed it from Summers. I have some ideas, Charles, on how to use magic to deflect bullets. Of course there's only one way to _test_ them. I know you know how to shoot -- you used to complain about your dad taking you hunting -- so if you could just aim a little to the side of me, so I don't _actually die_ if this doesn't work--"

 _"Erik._ What the _devil_ \-- this is a _school_ , Erik, there are children--" Charles could barely breathe. "You brought a loaded gun into a _school_?"

"It was already here. Technically."

"Yes, and Summers's job is toast, never fear. Oh my _god_. You actually -- you actually expect me to shoot at you. Right here. You really have no idea..." Charles kept his grip on the gun secure, though his skin wanted to flinch away from it.

Erik's grin had faded. "Come on now, Charles, don't act like it's going to bite you. It's just an object."

 _"Yes._ Yes, that is exactly the point, it is _just an object_ and it only does what a gun is supposed to do."

"Naturally," Erik said warily. "And I'm not aiming it at any of the students, Charles, do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Augh, who am I talking to, you're from a culture that hands out wands capable of _lethal spells_ at the age of _eleven_ , you simply don't understand -- Erik, to kill someone with magic requires _intent, all_ the lethal spells are powered by your own determination to _kill this person_ , you can't do it on accident. Right? You following me? That's why it's perfectly safe to throw the words 'Avada Kedavra!' around right and left, it's not going to do a thing unless you _mean_ it, right? _Guns are not like that._ "

Erik reached to take the gun back, and Charles tightened his grip on it -- no, he couldn't let Erik carry this around, so devoid of the wariness Muggles instinctively treated guns with, what if a child got hold of it, some pureblood child who didn't even know what it _was_ \--

"Erik, a bullet won't care if you meant to fire it or not, it fires anyway," he said, and Erik was trying to pry it from his hand now, Charles pulled it closer, and oh struggling over a gun was not not not a wise thing, "and you could kill someone, Erik, you could hurt yourself or me or one of the _children_ without _ever meaning to_ \--"

"Charles, you're pointing it at _yourself_ , even _I_ know better than that!"

"I'm not," though he knew it might look that way, and Erik's hands were panicky now, scrabbling --

"Stop it, stop it, just be still!" Charles forced himself to do likewise, and they stood there, rather more tangled together than he'd realized because he was half-turned away and Erik had tried to pull him back. Neither of them was breathing evenly and the gun was cold against Charles's stomach. "Erik," he said, very calmly, when he could, "I'm not giving this back to you, because you don't know how to handle it, and I can't be sure you'd give it the proper respect. I'm going to unload it, disassemble it if I can, and hide it in my room until I can decide what to do about it and you and Alex bloody Summers. That is what's going to happen. Now let me go."

Erik let his arms drop, slowly, but didn't step back. "Charles," he said, breath against Charles's hair, "I wouldn't let anything happen. I would never let you be hurt."

Charles sighed, resting his head against Erik's collar. The letter in his pocket crinkled at the movement. "I know you wouldn't, my friend. I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the bad news, folks -- updates have been coming fast because I already had all this written on the kinkmeme, but now I've caught up with myself and you're going to have to wait for me to actually write more before I can post it. I promise, I am working hard! I just wanted to warn you that the pace of updates is going to slow considerably. Sorry. :(


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Masquerade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you even start reading this, I feel it only fair to warn you: Charles does not open the letter in this update.
> 
> But he will in the next one.
> 
>    
> [inspiration for Raven's costume](http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs71/i/2010/285/f/4/__iris___masquerade_fairy_by_amandakathryn-d30mj1k.jpg)  
> [inspiration for Charles's costume](http://ninazdesign.deviantart.com/art/starry-night-90944850?q=boost%3Apopular%20in%3Aphotography%20body%20glitter&qo=52)

Charles knew the knock on his door was Raven. After all, the ball started in only an hour; she couldn't put it off much longer. He tore his eyes away from the handgun hidden behind the leatherbound Dickens collection – he had to stop staring at the thing, it wasn't going to walk away – and took a deep breath. "Come in."

Raven stepped through the door, softly, timidly. Lengths of shimmering blue-green were folded over her arm. "I, um. I have your costume, Charles. If we're still going. Together."

Charles rubbed his eyes. "Come sit down, Raven."

Raven bit her lip, laid the fabric over the back of a chair, and joined him on the couch. Despite his anger, burned down now to sullen coals in his belly, it pained Charles to see her so hesitant. Raven was a sunburst, a sword, a rampaging tiger in a china shop. She was never made to walk soft with frightened eyes, certainly not because of _him._

"You hid the letter because you were afraid for me," Charles said.

Raven nodded.

"Not because you were angry at Erik and wanted to punish him? Not because you were jealous and wanted to keep us apart?"

"No. I swear. I _was_ angry at Erik, I still am. But I wouldn't hurt you just to hurt him." She ventured a malicious smile. "I prefer to hurt him directly." She let the smile die away. "I guess... in a sense I did want to keep you apart. But not out of jealousy. I just... didn't want to watch him hurt you anymore."

Charles let out a long, thoughtful sigh, let his hand crawl into hers on the cushion between them. "Would you do it again?"

"Probably," Raven said in a small voice. "You were so _fragile_ , Charles. I wish I _could_ be convinced that I did the wrong thing, but I'm not. But." Her voice grew a little stronger. "If I had it to do over. I wouldn't keep it from you so long. Not ten years. Maybe not ten weeks. I should have seen, so much earlier, that no-letter was doing as much harm as any actual letter could. I'm sorry, Charles." Tears were edging into her voice.

Charles squeezed her hand. "I need you to promise that you'll never do anything like that again. I'm not fragile now. It's not your place to keep that kind of secret from me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said eagerly. "I promise."

He took a long breath, made the effort to let the coals of anger in his belly go gray and cold. "Then I forgive you."

She looked at him uncertainly. "Really?"

"Raven, you're my sister. I don't aim to lose you over this, or anything else." He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Now, about these costumes..."

\--- 

Erik surreptitiously patted one clammy hand dry against his pants leg as he and Angel approached the entrance to the Great Hall. Nerves, he told himself, were perfectly understandable on a night like this – a high-key social event of the sort he'd always hated, attended on the arm of a woman he was rapidly coming to dislike. It had nothing to do with his plans for the handful of coins in his pocket. There was nothing to be nervous about there. Sure, he wasn't as firmly in Charles's favor right now, following the gun incident, as he would have liked to be before taking this step – but even the worst possible response was only a social embarrassment, a minor personal rejection. He'd had lots of practice dealing with those. He'd survive it.

 _After all,_ his mind whispered, _you did such a great job surviving it the last time Charles rejected you._

"Erik?" Angel's voice made Erik blink and realize his feet had stopped moving. Angel tipped him an uncertain smile behind her butterfly mask.

He returned the smile, casual and cool, and started walking again.

Footmen in tuxedoes bowed them through the doors – this was an even fancier event than he'd realized – and they walked into a darker world.

Erik hadn't expected to be dodging breakfast tables, of course, but whoever had designed the decor for this ball – Emma Frost's committee, wasn't it? – had gone all out. The stone walls were now mirrors that seemed to expand the room into infinity. The usual floating candles had been replaced with gas lamps, the black silhouettes of bats and ravens darting between them. A chilly breeze seemed to wind through the room, carrying a subtle moan that hit the back-of-neck hairs long before the ears perceived it. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall showed a pale coin of moonlight through a veil of swift-moving clouds. _'The moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas,'_ wasn't that from some old poem Charles had loved – 

"Exquisite, isn't it?"

Erik turned to see Professor Shaw approaching, dressed and masked in white to match the snowy elegance of his date.

"My Emma does amazing work," Shaw continued, turning to kiss her hand. Emma beamed, which was possibly the first time Erik had ever seen the woman smile in a non-poisonous manner.

"It's astonishing," Erik admitted.

"Speaking of which, Angel, you are certainly at the top of your form." Shaw bowed over her hand, and now it was Angel's turn to beam. She had quite a nice smile, Erik had to admit, dimpled and sweet. "But I didn't know you two were coming together! Keeping secrets from your headmaster?"

Erik cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Angel saved him the trouble of answering. "It was a bit last-minute, sir."

"Well, I'm very glad to see it. I hope you two have a grand time, I think you'd be good for each other."

"Oh, look, Sebastian, Mr. Singer's here," Emma murmured.

"Must dash," Shaw sighed, "a host's burden..."

Erik managed a tight nod, and watched Shaw and Emma circulate onward, white moths in the shadowy ballroom. He let Angel tow him toward the refreshments, still trying to absorb their surroundings. The room was a swirl of skirts and long-tailed jackets, familiar faces made strange by masks and unusual clothes. Quite a few people, he realized, he truly didn't know. Surely not _that_ many teachers had imported dates...

"Isn't that the Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office?" Angel said at his elbow. "And I _know_ that guy is some kind of junior assistant to the Minister. Goodness, Sebastian's made an event of it."

"Who's that with Professor Azazel?"

"His date, apparently. Didn't catch his name, but rumor is Az brought him in all the way from Spain. No one's sure how he got here so fast. Pretty, isn't he?" She grinned and turned her attention to the refreshments. Erik let her wander down the table without him; he couldn't imagine trying to eat right now.

"Oh, come on, Charles, you look _fantastic!"_

"I look like Peter Pan's more flamboyant brother," came the hissing reply.

Erik turned, and felt his higher thought processes grind to a halt.

Charles and Raven were a shimmering spectacle of peacock blue and green, crowns of glitter-crusted leaves in their hair, brilliant butterfly wings on their backs that looked perfectly permanent and natural. (If anyone could do that, after all, it was Raven Darkholme, Metamorphmagus Extraordinaire.) Raven's shoulders were bare, her legs more enhanced than concealed by the fluttering petals of her skirt.

Charles's costume consisted mostly of blue and green glitter. A mask, of course, swirling blue and green; crown of leaves, wings, yes; leaf-trimmed boots and a tiny pair of shorts that Erik really couldn't afford to examine too closely. But mostly just... glitter, painted into complex swirls and curlicues on his face, across his shoulders, down his arms, his chest, the smooth softness of his stomach...

Erik swallowed hard and tried not to actually let his eyes cross.

Charles caught sight of Erik at last, those bright eyes unmistakable through the mask _(as if you didn't recognize every inch of the man anyway)_ , and was Erik imagining a sudden rosy tint spreading across that sparkling skin? It rather clashed with the blue.

"You, of course," Charles said, stepping up to him and grabbing a tiny pastry from the table, "get a top hat and a _cape_. Whereas I am probably going to freeze to death in this icebox."

 _Don't notice, don't don't notice that he's already cold._ With effort, Erik dredged forth a teasing smile and actual coherent words. "We'll recognize the hypothermia when your fingernails match the rest of you."

Charles groaned. "I look _ridiculous_."

"No, you don't," Raven insisted, grinning.

"Yes, you do," Erik said, voice shaking with suppressed laughter. Or hysteria. "Utterly. Perfectly ridiculous."

Charles glared, snatching up another pastry. "Don't you dare laugh at me."

"I'll try. It's difficult." He wasn't trying very hard. At this point, it was laugh or pin him to the wall and start licking glitter off. "Are those... pointed ears? Of course could do that at any time, Raven, but how did you manage to do it for Charles?"

"Some very delicate transfiguration work," Raven said smugly. "Lovely, aren't they?" She tipped one delicately peaked ear toward the light.

"Exceptional. So you're... fairies?"

"Oberon and Titania," Charles said through clenched teeth. "Wipe that smirk off your face, Lehnsherr. It's not too late to have you join the party – you could be Bottom and wear the head of an ass—"

Angel glided directly into Erik's personal space without seeming to notice Charles or Raven. "Wow, Erik, you have got to try these strawberry things – here, open your mouth."

"Um, I don't--" _like strawberries_ , but she had already popped it in, thumb lingering flirtatiously against his lip. He smiled tightly and choked it down while Angel linked her arm through his.

The pastry Charles had picked up was now dribbling fruit filling between the fingers of his clenched fist. Erik felt abruptly cheerier than he had all day.

"Raven, you look _amazing_ ," Angel gasped when she turned around. "It is Raven in there, isn't it? And Charles – oh my." She bit her lip and tried to choke back a laugh.

Charles's smile was more nearly a snarl.

"Oh, listen!" Angel spun toward the front of the room, where, in the space usually occupied by the staff table, a group of musicians in gauzy white had begun to make their presence known. The sounds of piano, flute, and violin flowed into the crowd, and a few couples started drifting toward the center of the floor.

"Let's dance!" Angel cried, gripping Erik's arm, and he found himself dragged away before he could protest.

 

The musicians were excellent, Charles thought. Along with the instruments they had two singers, a man with a rich dark plummy voice and a woman with a silvery soprano, and they were dueting beautifully. He didn't recognize the song, but it seemed to be some kind of dark, disturbing love story, and in keeping with tonight's decor they managed to make it sound both elegant and eerie.

Erik certainly looked both elegant and eerie, in all his tattered Victorian majesty, gliding about the dance floor as if their waltzing lessons had been last week rather than over a decade ago. Angel Salvadore, her curvy form nestled securely in his arms, looked like the happiest girl in the world.

Raven took a pair of champagne flutes from a passing tray and handed one to Charles. Without looking away from Erik, he tossed back the entire glass, set it down and reached for Raven's. She pulled it back instinctively, then glanced at Erik, now smiling at something Angel said, and let him have it.

"I knew they'd been hanging out," she said glumly. "But I didn't realize they were coming here together. I would have warned you."

He drained the second glass of champagne. "What’s to warn about? Erik and I are not together. He has the right to dance with whomever he pleases."

Raven grabbed his hand and began wiping fruit filling off it with a napkin.

"He looks _amazing_ in that cape. I'm not even going to talk about the cravat in mixed company. Be a dear, Raven, and find me another drink."

Raven sighed. "At least eat something, or I won't be responsible for you spending the night under a table."

 

If Angel noticed Erik's lack of enthusiasm for the dance, she gave no sign of it. She seemed pretty dazzled, still, by the whole situation – the music, the finery, even the gas lamps – and perhaps that was best. Just because he had lost any desire he'd ever had to be her date didn't mean he should make _her_ miserable. Charles would tell him to be kind, courteous.

Actually, Erik thought, glancing back toward the refreshment table, judging by Charles's expression, he was not advocating kindness or courtesy at all right now. Hope tingled in his chest, and he tried to aim his grin at Angel, so she'd think he was listening to her.

"...very big night for us, prepare yourself, he said, but how am I supposed to prepare when I don't know what he's up to? Oh, but this music is lovely..."

Angel insisted on swaying and spinning together through another song, and another; at the end of the third, however, Erik steered them firmly back toward the refreshment table, only to find that Shaw and Emma had circled their way over as well.

"Ah, Erik!" Shaw said with a heartiness that set Erik's teeth on edge. "I hope you and Angel are enjoying yourselves. You certainly made a lovely picture on the dancefloor."

Angel blushed and said something about the beautiful music; soon the two of them were in a deep music-related discussion that failed to hold Erik's interest for more than three words at a time, while Emma and Raven compared notes about a difficult student.

"What about you, Charles? Enjoying the music?" Erik asked, low-voiced. "You haven't danced yet."

"Hm? Oh, yes, quite. No, you were doing enough of that for the both of us, I suppose. I didn't know you and Angel were particularly acquainted."

"We weren't, actually, until just a day or two ago. She's a sweet girl."

"She is, actually, in spite of everything. A shame Shaw got his hooks into her so young. But then, he's good at that." He looked up at Erik with a more transparently sad expression than Erik thought he intended, and he was startled to see the extra brightness to his eyes, looseness to his joints, the barest hint of a flush to his skin... The flute of champagne in Charles's hand was not his first of the evening.

"You'd better keep your voice down, Charles," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder at Professor Shaw, still apparently absorbed in his conversation with Angel.

But Charles wasn't done. "It's so _nice_ that Shaw's two favorite pets managed to find each other. I'm sure you'll be very happy together." He drained his glass.

This was getting a bit uglier than Erik had intended. He tried for levity. "You know, Charles, at first I thought your costume was about equally blue and green, but now I can see that the green is clearly dominant."

He entertained a brief fantasy of Charles smashing his champagne flute into broken bits on the table, dragging Erik down into a rough, punishing, possessive kiss – but no, sadly, all Charles did was tighten his grip on his glass.

"Erik," Shaw called, and Erik reluctantly turned toward him. "I was just telling Angel, there are a few people I would love to introduce to the two of you. Take a break from dancing, won't you, and let me show you off a bit?"

"I'm not much good at small talk, Professor," Erik said, but Angel took hold of his arm, and that appeared to be the end of the discussion.

He spent a miserable hour being towed from one important personage to another, dredging polite smiles and meaningless conversation out of some heretofore unsuspected abyss in his soul. Shaw paraded Erik and Angel about with an expression somewhere between a proud papa and a greedy auctioneer.

Every few minutes Erik would scan the room for Charles, finding him on the dancefloor with Raven, then with Moira, then back at the refreshment table, deep in conversation with Sean Cassidy and Alex Summers… Seldom did he see him without a drink in his hand.

"Have we talked to enough stuffy politicians, Sebastian?" Angel asked finally, in a half-joking whine. "I want to dance some more."

Shaw laughed, in his peculiar calculated way, and graciously waved them off. Erik resigned himself to dancing with Angel again, and tried to think of a way to discourage the hands that were pressing, still casually, but more and more insistently, against him.

At length managed to extricate them from the dancefloor and tow Angel back to Charles and Raven.

"—don't think you should drink that," Raven hissed under her breath as they approached, and Charles drawled back, "Really, Raven, what else should I do with it?"

"Here, let me help," Erik said, and plucked the glass smoothly from Charles's fingers, tossing back its contents in one gulp. "Mm, yes, not a bad vintage."

"Why are you always stealing my glass?" Charles cried, but he was laughing.

Raven was not.

"Yours tastes better," Erik replied, as he always did, and was rewarded with the kind of affectionately exasperated smile he loved to provoke in Charles.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," came the unexpected voice of the male singer up on the dais. "I think it's time we mix things up a little at this shindig. To dance to this next song, you must request the hand of a partner _not your own_."

Erik's eyes flew to Charles. This hadn't quite been the plan – the coins were still in his pocket – but he would take whatever opportunity – 

Too late; Raven grabbed Erik's hand before he could extend it to Charles. "Take me for a spin, Erik, do," she said, "for old times' sake." Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were not.

Erik submitted with ill grace, leading Raven onto the dance floor. He glanced behind to see Charles bowing over Angel's hand; looking startled but charmed, she nodded.

Erik pulled Raven close to hiss in her ear, "Your brother might occasionally like to make his own choices, you know. Being an adult and all."

And Raven actually looked guilty, which was not something he had often seen. She rallied, however. "He may technically be an adult, Erik, but there's something you that brings out the childish side of us all."

"Meaning your childish jealousy of me and Charles," Erik murmured, low, angry-intimate. He felt spite pouring out of him, tried to bite it back, without success. "Speaking of old times, how does it feel to be dancing with him, and then with me, knowing we'd so much rather be dancing with each other and leave you out of it entirely? You'd do better to find yourself a man who actually wants you, Raven. _If_ you can."

She sucked in a breath. "I'd forgotten how _vicious_ you can be when someone gets in your way."

Erik found that his store of spite was abruptly exhausted. This was _Raven_ , one of his oldest friends, and Merlin's beard, he wasn't a child anymore, jealous and petty, hurting his friends because he was hurting. He could be a better man than that. "I'm sorry," he said, with difficulty.

Raven blinked. "What?"

"I'm sorry. For saying hateful things to you – so many times. You deserve better."

Raven stared at him, let out a breath – half amused, half contemplative. "Easier to say 'sorry' than to actually change your behavior, of course."

"Of course. But one has to start somewhere."

They danced in silence for a verse and a chorus, something about sirens calling and blonde curls.

"Would you take care of him, if you had him?" Raven said finally. "Or would you... crash around in his life, again, breaking things left and right and leaving me to clean it up? And I don't just mean the break-up, Erik. You probably have no idea how many evenings I spent on the common room couch with him, drying his tears after you brushed him off, or snapped at him, or chose your awful friends over him, or flirted with someone else right in front of him—"

"I _never_ —"

"Primrose. Parkinson."

"She flirted with _me_ , I didn't—" He took a deep breath, unclenched his teeth. "Specifics aside, I know I treated him badly. And no, I _don't_ intend to ever make that mistake again. I... I don't understand myself sometimes." He heard his own voice go distant. "Being with him was all I ever really wanted. And I let other things, so much less important, interfere with that. I was _stupid._ I spent so much time trying to fit in here, to feel like I belonged... and _Charles_ was the only one who truly gave that to me. The other boys, you remember them, I'm sure, the ones I was trying to please by keeping Charles a secret? Do you know how many of them I ever heard from, after graduation? One. Higgs. He needed money." He added, "Well, two, if you count Hotchkiss."

"Hotchkiss? The one who broke your arm? Twice?"

"I ran into him, half-drunk, at some Ministry function. He acted like we were old friends. It was surreal." The song was drawing to a close; Erik took Raven's face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You were a better friend to me than any of them, Raven. I'm sorry I wasn't better at returning the favor."

"One apology doesn't exactly make you a new man," Raven said, but she looked thoughtful rather than angry.

"It's progress, though, maybe?"

"Progress," she said. "Maybe."

 

"So you and Erik are old friends, right? From when you were kids?"

Charles dragged his attention away from Erik and Raven, clearly not enjoying each other's company, and back to his dance partner. "Yes, Erik was my very best friend." Was? Is? Will be? _English needs more verb tenses..._

"Can you give me any advice, then?" She was trying to keep her expression sunny and teasing, as if this were a joke, but her eyes gave it away. "You know, likes and dislikes? Favorite color?"

The catalog of likes and dislikes that came to his mind were neither appropriate to share nor – he hoped viciously – would they ever be necessary for Angel to know. "His favorite color is red," he said instead. _He prefers me in blue, though, to match my eyes. If I have to wear anything at all._ He managed not to say that out loud, barely. Perhaps Raven was right and he'd had enough champagne for the evening.

"Red," Angel repeated, a bit smugly. "Fantastic. That can definitely be arran-- Ow!"

"Sorry," Charles said, determinedly loosening his death-grip on her hand. "Sorry about that."

"Um, no problem. So, why isn't he married yet? A great guy like Erik? Does he have some dire, shocking flaw I should know about?"

"Would you like the list alphabetically, or in order of increasing heinousness?" Oh dear, that was out loud.

Angel laughed so hard and long, it segued into an uncomfortable-sounding cough. Charles finally lead her off the dance floor to recover, guiding her to the refreshments and handing her a drink.

"Sorry," Angel mumbled, gulping champagne. "You know how sometimes something just strikes you? 'Increasing heinousness'!" She dissolved into giggles again, then coughs.

Charles patted her back, maintaining his smile, and honestly was not intending to eavesdrop when Emma Frost's voice caught his ear, from where she was standing with Shaw several feet away.

"You're very cheerful tonight, Sebastian. I thought you were dreading hobnobbing with all these 'lesser creatures.'"

Shaw's only response was a barely-audible chuckle.

"Your oh-so-mysterious experiments must have gone well, then," Emma said.

"They did indeed, my dear. My work will soon be concluded, or at any rate properly begun, and the lesser creatures will cease to be an issue."

"What _are_ you doing with that twisted mind of yours, sugar?" Emma said with a sort of weary affection.

"That would spoil the surprise." Glasses clinked together, then were set aside. "But why talk of work when we can dance?"

"Why indeed."

They passed Charles and Angel without a glance, while Charles tried to figure out why he found the conversation so very, very alarming.

 

"I'll join you in just a moment," Erik said to Raven as they walked back toward Charles and Angel, and darted off before she could protest.

The musicians were still preparing for the next song, and the female singer cheerfully bent down to hear Erik when he motioned her over.

"Do you take requests?" 

"Sorry, sir, but when Miss Frost engaged us, she was very specific about the kind of music—"

Erik pulled the handful of silver coins from his pocket.

The singer raised an eyebrow at the – generous – bribe, and said, "I'm sure we can squeeze something in. Right now?"

"No, play… two more first, and then mine." That would give him time to find his way back to Charles. And work up his nerve a little.

"Very well. What's the song?"

Erik tried to breathe through the sudden shiver of nerves. Silly to get this worked up over a dance -- the _possibility_ of a dance. "Have you heard of Elvis Presley?"

 

He was only a few steps away from Charles when a tubby, dark-haired man in a checkered mask touched his arm. "Hold up there, is this _Lehnsherr?_ My eyes are probably playing tricks on me, with all these masks – no, by golly, you _are_ Lehnsherr!"

"I am," Erik admitted cautiously, extricating his arm. "And you are?"

"Oh, of course." The man plucked off his mask, smiled expectantly.

It still took Erik a moment to place him as a higher-up from his old office – not his direct supervisor, and therefore no one Erik had paid any particular attention to... "Ah, Oliver."

Oliver's smile widened, and he swept a bow. "Surprised to see me here, I suppose – but no more than I am to see you! Are you, erm... acquainted with someone on staff?"

Erik translated this as _Only the top Ministry brass got invited and that's certainly not you._ Which was, of course, extremely true. Erik had never been important in the Ministry. He had done his insignificant job with ruthless efficiency and a minimum of human contact, then gone home to... stare at the wallpaper and think as little as possible. Or walk aimlessly down dark streets, hoping to be mugged. It struck Erik, with a suddenness that make him rock a bit on his feet, how entirely miserable and pointless his life had been.

Pointless enough, apparently, that his co-workers hadn't actually noticed his two-month absence. "I'm _on_ the staff, actually," Erik managed. "I teach here now. Potions."

Oliver blinked at him, as if waiting for the punchline. "You... _teach?"_

Erik laughed. "I do. I'm quite terrible at it, but the test scores haven't been too dismal, so apparently something's getting through."

"Well," Oliver said. "Well, congratulations, certainly. Teaching at Hogwarts, that's, that's quite an honor." _Usually reserved for people who have a clue what they're doing_ went unsaid. "Are you enjoying your change in career?"

"Enjoying?" Erik repeated. "Am I enjoying spending my days wrangling the snide, the lazy, and the feeble-minded? And my evenings slapping together lesson plans and grading assignments until my eyes cross?" _While Charles puts on another pot of tea and laughs at me, generally._ "Not particularly enjoying that, no."

"And yet, you're smiling," Oliver said, and Erik realized it was true. He took a moment to consider that.

"I enjoy it when it works," he said. "When you've been trying to get a concept through a child's head all day long and suddenly you see that light of comprehension, suddenly they can _do_ it. And they've grown, some little bit, right in front of you, one inch closer to the adult they're going to be. Sometimes you have to push them off a building, but then... but then they fly." And _that_ was not the sort of thing Erik Lehnsherr said out loud, certainly not to bare acquaintances. He felt his face heat a little.

"Well," Oliver said, looking reluctantly impressed, "I guess you're where you belong, then."

Charles was listening, Erik realized abruptly, watching them from the refreshment table. Erik's face grew hotter still, but he met Charles's eyes over Oliver's shoulder without flinching. "I guess maybe I am."

 

Charles and Raven were deep in discussion, he realized as he approached, about the identity of a nearby man – tall, lanky, and covered head to toe in blue fur.

"I give up," Charles declared. "I think he must be a visitor. I don't recognize him at all."

Raven, however, squinted, then straightened with a gasp. _"Hank?"_

Aha, Hank McCoy, Care of Magical Creatures Instructor whom the students therefore liked to call Professor Beast. There definitely was something of Hank in this man's height and awkward body language.

The furry blue figure turned in their direction. "Raven?" The voice was definitely Hank's, if rather strangled-sounding. Erik ran an eye down the length – or brevity – of Raven's costume and tamped down a grin.

"Hank, how did you _do_ this? You look _amazing!"_ Raven stepped toward Hank as he approached and raised a tentative hand to his furry shoulder.

"Er, well. It was actually. I was trying to give an injection – an experimental gene therapy for Professor Sinistra's blue jarvey, it has a rare form of – well, even _I_ can't pronounce it, but it was thrashing around and. And I stuck myself by accident. It'll wear off!" he added hurriedly.

Raven didn't seem to need reassuring, however. "I kinda like it," she said, petting his fur down the length of his arm. Hank made a noise that sounded like attempted words, and this time Erik could not contain the grin. "What does your date think?" Raven asked.

"Oh, well, I wouldn't know – that is, I just came with Alex – not _with_ Alex, not like that! Just neither of us had a date, so. He's around here somewhere. But anyway I don't have. A date."

A new song started up, one not at all suited for slow dancing, but Raven draped her arms around Hank's neck anyway. "Would you like to dance, Hank?" Blue fur began sweeping up from her skin, velvety and graceful.

Hank made more attempted words and nodded.

Raven winked at Charles over her shoulder and dragged Hank off toward the dance floor.

"Angel tore a piece on her costume," Charles said. "She's attempting some kind of emergency repair out in the hallway."

"Oh. Of course." It hadn't even occurred to Erik to wonder where she was.

Charles gave him a long look and sighed.

"What?"

"You really don't fancy her at all, do you?"

"Did you want me to?"

"No," Charles admitted. "I just… it's like watching a train wreck. She really likes you."

"And since when are you so concerned about the feelings of 'Shaw's favorite pets'?"

"I shouldn't have said that." He looked down at the half-empty champagne flute in his hand. "Or maybe I shouldn't be saying _this_. It's getting hard to tell."

Erik gently pulled the glass from his fingers and replaced it with a chocolate biscuit, which Charles regarded with wonder and joy for a moment and then ate.

"Why did you come with her?" he asked around a bite of biscuit.

"She asked me." He let _You didn't_ hang unspoken in the air; he could see from Charles's rueful expression that the message was coming through loud and clear.

Raven's dance with Hank was over now, but she seemed in no hurry to return to them. Erik could just see them across the room, talking very excitedly to each other just off the dance floor.

Excellent. Because the next song was starting – now.

There it was, the unfurling ribbon of introductory piano notes, recognizable if noticeably slower and more mournful than he remembered it, in keeping with the atmosphere… the singer's voice was not as deep and rich as Elvis Presley's, but it was a respectable substitute…

_"Wise men say_  
Only fools rush in  
But I can't help falling in love with you..." 

Charles turned toward him with eyes wide. Erik smiled, eyebrows quirked in hopeful invitation, held out a hand.

Charles looked at the hand, opened his mouth, but didn't speak. Tempted, but uncertain. An extremely familiar look, actually, when Erik was successfully talking him into doing something he knew he shouldn't.

"Come on, Charles," Erik murmured, stepping closer. "You'll dance with Shaw's other pet, but not with me?"

Charles swallowed, and put his hand in Erik's.

Erik felt a heady rush of relief and triumph, and pulled Charles onto the dance floor before he could change his mind.

"Are we going to argue about leading again?" Charles laughed as they stumbled over each other.

"You're still shorter, and I still initiated the dance," Erik said.

"Very well," Charles sighed, moved his hand to Erik's shoulder, and they fell into step.

Fell right into step, even after so long, and all the proper waltzing space between them lasted about three steps before it began closing, seemingly of its own accord, their hands migrating from their proper places – 

_Like a river flows_  
Surely to the sea  
Darling, so it goes  
Some things are meant to be 

\-- and Erik wanted, foolishly, to point out _See how I don't care that people are staring? See how I've learned my lesson?_ and actually people _weren't_ even staring very much. Azazel had his pretty Spanish boy and no one was terribly concerned; one of the Ministry ladies was dancing with Emma Frost, to Shaw's evident amusement. That amusement evaporated instantly on seeing Erik with Charles, but Erik paid that no mind whatsoever, even less than he did to the 'I knew it' delight on Moira and Sean Cassidy's faces as they spun by.

In fact, it took him maybe sixty seconds to stop noticing that anyone else was in the room at all. Nothing could possibly matter more than closing the scant inch left between himself and Charles, one hand curling around Charles's waist, the other sliding up his back, carefully avoiding the gleaming blue wings – warm bare skin, glitter catching on his fingertips – his breath stuttered when he found the faint bite scar on Charles's shoulder, souvenir of their first time – two clueless teenagers, half-ecstatic, half-terrified, clinging to each other for dear life… He traced it with his fingertips, barely touching, and felt Charles shiver.

They still fit together so perfectly, Charles instinctively tucking himself under Erik's chin, arms winding around his neck. They weren't anything like waltzing anymore, simply wrapped together and swaying to the music.

_Take my hand  
Take my whole life too…_

The female singer had joined in, and her glimmering soprano descant nudged their rendition of the song from strangely melancholy to haunting, a far cry from the straightforward romantic ballad of years ago. That seemed appropriate; the same song, made bleak by years of mistakes and misunderstandings, but the same song underneath.

_For I can't help  
Falling in love with you_

Erik didn't try a repeat of the juvenile dip attempt; there was no joke in this dance. He told himself he shouldn’t try anything at all, shouldn't press his luck, but as the music trailed away, he found he couldn't simply let go. Their foreheads were touching now, breath brushing unsteadily against each other's faces – it was the easiest thing in the world to lean forward, just that extra inch and a half – 

Charles drew in a sharp breath and pulled away – not entirely, only leaning back, but the 'no' was clear and it stung, like cold water dashed in his face after the warm glow of the dance.

"Why not?" Erik murmured, keeping carefully still, no need to tense up, he wasn't angry.

"Erik…" Charles's voice was pleading. "It's… It's not like we disagree on sports teams, or dogs versus cats, is it? It's not something we can compromise on, or just agree to disagree—"

"I am so tired of talking about this." He shouldn't be angry, he knew he shouldn't, it wasn't as though any of this were a surprise. Things had just been going so _well_ …

"Erik, where did you—" Angel's voice on the edge of the dancefloor hit his nerves like an off-key note. He could tell when she caught sight of them by the loud, startled "Oh," followed by a timid, uncomfortable "...Erik?"

"You should attend to your date," Charles whispered.

"My _date_ can go hang—"

"No." Charles's voice was nearly a snap. "You will not embarrass that poor girl just because you are angry with _me._ You will be a gentlem—"

"You know, Charles, you're dreadfully dictatorial for someone who has repeatedly declined any right to involvement in my life choices." He stepped back – it hurt so badly to not be touching him anymore – and bent into a deep bow, as sarcastically as he could manage. "Good evening to you, Professor."

"Erik—"

He did not pause or turn around, but walked straight off the dancefloor to Angel.

"Hey," Angel said nervously, glancing between Erik and Charles, still standing where he'd left him. "Um, Professor Shaw has invited a bunch of us out to the lake for some kind of… I don't know, thing. You want to go?"

Erik felt abruptly exhausted, heavy and cold down to his bones. Why had he ever come to this idiotic event? "You go ahead, Angel. I think I've had as much socialization as I can take, tonight."

Angel looked utterly crestfallen, and Erik made an effort to gentle his tone. "You go enjoy yourself, Angel. I'll give you back your costume tomorrow. Thank you," he remembered to add. "For a nice evening." _I had a good time_ was too great a lie for him to choke out; he settled for, "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," Angel said. Erik managed to bow over her hand, then fled the room before he had to look at her or Charles for one more second.

 

He slammed the chamber door behind him, snatched off his top hat and mask and threw them to the floor – he'd lost the walking stick somewhere but who cared – barely managed to rip off the cape and waistcoat without damaging them – and collapsed into the chair by the fire.

He couldn't decide whom he was angrier at, Charles or himself. He'd let his temper get the better of him. Again. And ruined everything. Again. But _why_ couldn't Charles just—

Just what? Abandon his principles, go against everything he believed was right, to make Erik happy?

_I'd do it for him._

_Then why haven't you?_

_It's not that_ simple!

_Exactly._

He exhaled slowly, letting his head fall forward into his hands, and focused on breathing. When the anger had died down to a dull, bruise-like thrum, he scrubbed fingers through his hair and forced himself to get up, pulled a piece of carrot cake from the cabinet. He'd had rather more champagne than food, at the ball, and a clearer head could only serve him well.

Then again, drinking himself into a stupor also had a certain appeal...

No, he told himself firmly, taking a bite of the carrot cake. There was a reason _stupor_ and _stupid_ were so linguistically similar, and he'd done enough stupid things tonight. Starting with even attending the cursed ball.

He ate with focused efficiency, not letting himself think beyond the comforting solidity of the food. Erik wasn't fond of overeating – it made him feel heavy and slow – but at the same time, two lean, hungry years in an orphanage had left him with a permanent appreciation of having food whenever he wanted it. They hadn't been _starved_ at the orphanage, but they hadn't by any means been indulged, either.

When the carrot cake was gone, he felt steady enough to consider his options.

He could go back to the ball, he supposed. Put his costume back together. Find Charles and apologize. It had only been – he checked the time – an hour, already? Charles wasn't one to turn in early, he'd probably still be there, and if not he could go to Charles's room... that might be more invasive than conciliatory...

The knock on his door was so entirely unexpected that for several seconds, all Erik could do was stare at it.

"It's me, Erik," came Charles's voice, and Erik yanked the door open almost before he was done speaking.

They stood in the doorway and looked at each other, Charles's mask dangling from one hand.

"What happened to your wings?" Erik asked.

"Oh, they got tangled in a curtain. One of them tore, I gave them back to Raven. She and Hank went off somewhere and abandoned me. I told her I was going to bed but I kept drinking instead."

 _That_ much was obvious; Charles wasn't slurring, quite, but his cheeks were very flushed. Erik bit back the urge to touch them. "Come in," he said.

He barely got the door shut before Charles had him backed up against it, hands sliding up his chest. One hand still had the mask in it; Charles chucked it irritably away and pressed closer.

"Um," Erik said breathlessly.

"I came here to apologize," Charles murmured, fiddling with Erik's cravat. "I think. Or make you apologize. Can't remember which. Actually I may have come here just to tell you I _miss_ you and you looked so amazing in that _cape_ and I… I don't want to go back my room, it's so cold there…" He rose on his tiptoes, sliding up Erik's body, and kissed him.

Erik's mind dissolved into fierce, desperate, disbelieving joy, and for a solid blinding minute he could not think about anything but the heat of Charles's mouth under his, the bare skin of his back, glitter-crusted leaves crushing in his hands as they tangled in Charles's hair, there would be glitter _everywhere_ in the morning--

Morning. When this would be over and Charles would be sober and awkward and regretful. Erik did not think he could bear to have this and then see Charles _regret_ it.

Charles seemed to take Erik's sudden hesitation merely as an invitation to slow the kiss from frantic to something gentler, more tender – no less intense for all that – 

_Drunk,_ some half-functional synapse reminded him, _taking advantage, regret, shouldn't—_

But Charles had angled him down into the nearest chair and straddled his lap, oh _god_ , fingertips trailing down his face and throat – he had forgotten, chosen to forget, just how it felt to have Charles kiss him like this, like he was the most precious, perfect, beautiful thing in the universe and he was going to _die_ if he couldn't have Erik – slowly, tenderly, thoroughly – right _now_. It felt so good Erik felt tears prickle in his eyes.

He was ruined for anyone else, he could see that clearly now, where before he had only suspected. He and Charles had taught each other how to kiss and his mouth would never fit anyone else's this perfectly. He'd tried; it just didn't work. There would never be anyone else.

Which made it all the more important that this happen _right_. Not like this. Not a drunken fumble to be regretted in the morning.

It took every shred of his self-control, but Erik pulled one of Charles's hands away from his face, trying to gently disengage. Charles missed the hint, instead intertwining their fingers and trapping their joined hands against the hummingbird flutter of his heartbeat.

That was the end of self-control. All Erik had left to draw on was anger.

"Get _off!"_

Charles rocked back, blinked at him in such sad, owlish confusion that it nearly broke him.

"Get off me." Erik began pushing to his feet, and Charles perforce stumbled back.

"Erik?"

"You're here to, what, get me out of your system? I don't _want_ to be out of your system, Charles, and I will not let you write me off as a drunken mistake." Despite himself, he smoothed a hand down Charles's cheek, swallowed when Charles leaned into the touch. "When this happens, Charles – and it will – it will be for _keeps_. Do you understand?"

Charles just looked baffled and a little hurt.

Erik took a deep, calming breath. "You'll understand once you sober up. I hope. Now I'm going to go into the other room for a moment so we can both pull ourselves together. Then I'll walk you back to your chambers." Following Charles back to his room was... a risky gambit, in their current state, but Charles was clearly too drunk to be left unsupervised. There were too many stone staircases in this castle.

He stepped into the bedroom and leaned against the door, trying to put his hair and clothes back in order. Where had his cravat gone? And how had Charles gotten his shirt unbuttoned that fast? The tingle in his lips and… other such evidence of his feelings would have to die away on their own.

There were shimmering handprints all over him. Not that he needed them, to know exactly where Charles had touched.

He tried not to look at the bed where he would sleep alone tonight.

 _You could still change your mind about this,_ came a little whisper in his head. _You don't have to send him away. You could go right back out that door and—_

 _No._ Erik took a slow, slow breath, in and out. _No. I can be the better man, for once._

He had not, he realized, heard any sounds of motion from the other side of the door. Was Charles just standing there? He had a sudden mental image of Charles weeping quietly by the fire, too drunk to understand why he was being rejected, and rushed out of the room.

Charles _was_ by the fire. Curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

Erik watched him for a minute, the slow rise and fall of his bare chest, the careless wisp of hair across his cheek. He brushed it back, let his fingers linger against warm skin.

Then he pulled one of the blankets off his bed and tucked it around Charles, and bent to kiss his temple before going to bed alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested:
> 
>  
> 
> **Playlist for the Masquerade**
> 
>  
> 
> [Snow White Queen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRqbH8GBlGc) (Evanescence) _[Erik & Angel's first dance]_  
> Dark & Twisty Road (Abney Park)  
> Love You to Death (Kamelot)  
> Dark Heavens (Kate St. John)[download here](http://www.mediafire.com/?h4cxvc4wz7bt86v)  
> Wicked Game (Chris Isaak)  
> Poison & Wine (The Civil Wars)  
> Dark Waltz (Hayley Westenra)  
> Don't Fear the Reaper (Blue Oyster Cult)  
> [Siren Song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zFjunB2HNk) (Bat for Lashes) _[Erik & Raven's dance]_  
> [Welcome to the Masquerade](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dhz8ycVi_zo) (Thousand Foot Krutch) _[Raven & Hank's dance]_  
> The Night (The Perishers)  
> Ghost (Blue Foundation)  
> Gloomy Sunday (Sarah McLachlan)  
> Sweet Dreams (Eurythmics)  
> Dead is the New Alive (Emilie Autumn)  
> Prelude 12/21 (AFI)  
> [Pokerface](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqT4VnnEU0M) (Chris Daughtry acoustic cover)
> 
> and of course
> 
> I Can't Help Falling in Love With You (Elvis Presley)
> 
>  


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles reads the letter.

Charles became gradually aware of sunlight on his face, which meant it was definitely time to get up or he would be late for his first class. Today was going to be bedlam anyway, all the children too excited about Halloween and their ball tonight to pay attention. He needed to be at the top of his game.

His first attempt at movement informed he that he had a headache, and was very thirsty. The second attempt gave him the startling information that he was not in his bed.

No. He was on Erik's couch, with a subtly Erik-scented blanket twisted around him. Because he had come to Erik's room...

The sensory memory came first, the gasping needing _yes_ of Erik's lips pushing back against his own, Erik's fingers tangled tight in his hair, the heat and solidity of Erik's hips under Charles's thighs – the joy and relief, _finally, finally, Erik I've wanted you so much, missed you so much, love you so much –_

And then the embarrassment kicked in.

Charles buried his head under the blanket. How could he have _done_ that? If Erik thought he was giving mixed signals _before_ – and he had been angry, of course he had, he'd been _furious_ , how could he have put Erik in the position of having to turn him down...

Charles paused. Erik had turned him down. He had come to Erik, willing and eager – insistent, even – _Oh it had been good_ – and Erik had turned him down. Left him on the couch and gone to bed alone.

A tangle of competing emotions swirled in Charles's head. He was... surprised. Mortified. Disappointed. Miffed. Relieved.

Impressed.

Touched.

 _"When this happens -- and it will -- it will be for_ keeps."

Slowly, Charles sat up and scrubbed one hand through his hair, keeping the blanket wrapped around him with the other. His ears were back to normal, and all the horrific glitter had vanished into oblivion, as promised. He didn't look any more ridiculous than any other half-naked man in tiny shorts, at the moment. He crossed the room to the water pitcher without wobbling overmuch. A long, gulping drink helped him feel more present in his body.

Erik's bedroom door was still shut. Charles bit his lip, stared at it a long moment... then padded silently across the room and eased it open.

Erik lay in the middle of the bed, curled tightly around a pillow. He looked younger, asleep; almost like the Erik he had left at the train station, the Erik he had slept next to over four Christmas holidays, three summer breaks. For all his teasing about Charles being a clingy bed partner, it was Erik who slept like a lonely child, curled in on himself, huddled close to whatever warmth or contact he could find.

Even now.

Charles backed silently out of the room and closed the door. Then he eased the sealed envelope out of the pocket of his shorts.

He'd had to shrink it magically to make it fit without bending, but he'd had to bring it along, somehow couldn’t bear to leave it anywhere. He restored it to its true size, now, and weighed it carefully in his hand.

For the first several hours, the mere fact of the letter's existence had been overwhelming enough that reading it was simply too much to handle. After that... he was afraid of it, Charles realized. Because it could change everything. It could make it impossible for them to ever be friends again.

One way or another.

Charles took a deep, steadying breath, and opened the letter.

\---

Erik woke to the sound of dishes clattering and the scent of brewing coffee.

It took him several minutes to talk himself into leaving the bedroom. Only when he was showered, dressed, and shaved, his hair under perfect control and his robes layered neatly over all, could he muster the courage to open the door.

"There you are!" Charles, standing at the counter, called cheerfully over his shoulder. "I've got coffee, tea, toast with butter, toast with cheese, toast with marmalade... This marmalade is amazing, by the way, where did you get it? Have a seat, go on."

Erik just stared. Charles was wearing Erik's clothes. Charles was _wearing Erik's clothes_ , a pair of black trousers about to fall off his hips, the sleeves of a dark blue sweater lapping over his knuckles with the wide neck exposing one smooth, creamy shoulder. Smooth except for the bite scar... Erik nearly bolted for the bedroom. Except that would mean not seeing this, and he wanted to see it, wanted to see it every morning for the rest of his life—

Charles turned around with a tray of toast and mugs in his hands, twitching one shoulder as if to pull the sweater back into place. It fell further. He took the tray to the table, sat down, and raised an eyebrow at Erik.

"Planning to join me, or do I have to eat all this toast by myself?"

Erik swallowed and took a seat.

Charles sipped his tea with a happy hum and began helping his plate, glancing up to smile at Erik as he bit into a slice of marmalade toast.

"Charles," Erik croaked, "do you... remember...?"

Charles set down the toast and bit his lip _(augh he's trying to kill me)_ and only with the smile gone could Erik see what a nervous mask it had been. "Yes, I remember perfectly," Charles said quietly. "I am sorry to have put you in that position, my friend. I want to thank you for your... extremely level-headed response."

"Are you... I hope you didn't..." Erik's voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "It wasn't a matter of not wanting you, Charles, I hope you understand that—"

"I do, Erik." He reached across the table to touch Erik's hand and, to Erik's shock, lace their fingers together. "I do." He just looked at Erik for a minute, with a soft, bright, nervous smile, before he pulled his hand away. "Eat, Erik. We've got a long day ahead."

Erik ate, and drank his coffee, and tried to think of things to say. He could not come up with any.

When his plate was empty, he carried it to the sink and poured another cup of coffee. When he turned back toward the table, something caught his eye. A thin sheet of parchment, on the little table in front of the couch, laid open but bearing the marks of being a long time folded. There was an open envelope beneath.

It was crazy, he told himself, to even _wonder_ —There was no reason at all to think it might be his letter, it was impossible to read a word from here—

But he knew. Whether he subconsciously recognized something about the parchment itself, or whether Charles's shivering nerves clued him in, he couldn't say. But he knew.

He set his mug down on the counter and crossed the room to pick up the letter.

He didn't really have to read it. The words were burned into his brain. He'd agonized over them for days, over a dozen drafts, a dozen crushed and broken quills. He didn't have to read them but he did it anyway.

_Charles,_

_I am an idiot. I have been terrible to you and I'm so sorry. There's no excuse for the things I said but I swear I never meant them. Let me make this right._

_Charles, I love you more than anything. You're all I have, the only thing in the world that matters. I miss you so much I can't breathe. I miss everything about you – your eyes, your smile, your sharp mind, your lame jokes. You make this world worth being in and you make me want to be better just so I can deserve to be around you. Without you everything gets dark and tangled, and I fall asleep on the couch because the bed is so cold and empty I can't even look at it. I can't live this way._

_You still love me, I know you do. You need me, and I need you, and we can’t let this or anything else get between us. I know I screwed up, and it kills me that I hurt you, when all I want is to have you happy beside me. But I can fix it if you'll let me._

_You have to talk to me. Write to me. Whatever you need to say to me, I know I deserve it, and I can take it. I can take anything from you but silence. Just tell me what you want from me and it's yours. You have to let me fix this. We can't just walk away from each other, after all this time. I won't let you go that easily. I love you too much not to fight for you._

_Please forgive me. I love you. I'm sorry._

_I love you.  
Erik_

 

"I need you to understand," Charles said, "I only received that letter two days ago. And only got up the courage to read it this very morning."

Erik stared at him. "But… how…" He felt his face harden. "Raven."

"Yes," Charles said softly. "And we've already had words about it. She had her reasons. But we can talk about Raven later."

Erik looked down at the parchment in his hand, trying to absorb the meaning of what he was hearing. Charles hadn't ignored his letter, or burned it unread, hadn't read the words _I can take anything from you but silence_ and decided that was exactly what Erik deserved. "You thought I never wrote," he realized, voice hoarse. "You thought I never even tried, that I didn't want – _Charles—"_

"I didn't understand how you could be so angry about not hearing from me in ten years, when you hadn't given me a word either." Charles smiled wryly, even as his eyes grew wet. "What a pair we made, fencing in the dark."

Erik drew a steadying breath, tried to keep his voice conversational. "And now that you've read this letter at last, what do you think of it?"

"Well," Charles said dryly, "it's certainly representative of its sender. I never knew begging and demanding could sound so alike. Virtually indistinguishable."

"I suppose I may have been… a bit dramatic."

"Mm. Said you couldn't live without me, for instance, and yet you seem to have survived."

"No, not really," Erik breathed.

"You also said you would fight for me," Charles said, his voice breaking suddenly. "Why didn't you write again?"

"I… It never occurred to me that you hadn't read it. Esther delivered it to your house herself, it wasn't like the Muggle postal system where things get lost and no one knows it. I thought this – nothing – was my answer. Writing again would have been… Shameful. Pathetic. Creepy, even, trying to force my affection on someone who had made his wishes clear. If it had ever occurred to me that you'd never _received_ it…" He felt hot and cold all over, sick at the idea of so many years lost, wasted… Depending on what Charles's true reply might have been. He wet his lips and asked, _"Would_ you have written back?"

"I don't know," Charles admitted bleakly. "I had vowed to burn any and all letters from you, unopened. That was one reason Raven hid it from me. I don't know if I would have followed through. I do know that if I'd burned this letter I would have regretted it the rest of my life. I do know that it killed me that you never wrote." 

The tears in his eyes, in his voice, were unmistakable now, and Erik went instictively to his side. Charles stood, tried to turn away, but at Erik's gentle hand on his shoulder he turned back, let Erik bracket unsteady hands on either side of his neck, thumbs ghosting along his jaw, barely touching.

"And if you had replied?" Erik felt dizzy with fear, but he had to know. "What would you have said? Would you have forgiven me?"

Charles closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "Oh, Erik. That one incident – _all_ the incidents, even – you do realize our personal conflicts are only half the problem? Forgiving you doesn't fix everything." His voice sank to a whisper. "But yes. Yes, I forgive you all of it, everything – for good or ill, all I ever needed for that was for you to actually be _sorry_ —"

"I am sorry," Erik said brokenly, and leaned forward to press a soft, hesitant kiss to Charles's lips. "I'm sorry." Another kiss. "I'm sorry."

Charles didn't let him pull away a third time, locking arms around his neck and burying himself in the kiss.

Erik wasn't particularly aware of slamming Charles against the thick oak door, but he wasn't particularly aware of _anything_ beyond the taste of Charles's lips, the sweet sharp pain of Charles's nails digging into his back, Charles arching up against him and wrapping his legs around Erik's waist. Some part of him was trying to go slower, gentler, trying to _savor_ this, trying to make every touch into proof that Charles was not just wanted but _loved_. It was hard to focus on these noble goals with Charles tearing right through the buttons of his shirt to get to the skin underneath.

No, it was too difficult to think about slowing down, and much too difficult to think about _Forgiving you doesn't fix everything_ – they could figure that out later, he just wanted to think about _Yes, I forgive you all of it, everything_ and Charles's desperate gasping cries as he threw his head back and let Erik's mouth map out the smooth terrain of his throat.

Erik doubted he would have even _heard_ the knock at the door if it hadn't been mere inches from his ear. Even then he wouldn't have stopped, but Charles did, pulling back inasmuch as he _could_ pull back, which was _not at all much_ , and for a moment they were frozen, eyes locked, and the knock was still the merest flutter at the edge of Erik's mind, nowhere near as important as the gorgeous glow of Charles's eyes, dazed and dilated but more importantly _happy,_ bright and soft with a joy that took ten years off his face. It was the most beautiful thing Erik had ever seen, he wanted to touch that joy, taste it, drink it, he leaned back in –

"Erik," Charles said, painfully, reluctantly, "Erik, I think it's a student."

"What?"

"At the door. It's someone short, it must be a student. It could be important."

Erik literally could not imagine anything important enough to interrupt this, including fire, flood, or rampaging lions. But Charles was trying to wriggle free, so Erik tried to swallow his agonized impatience and let Charles down onto his feet. With shaking hands he smoothed his hair and buttoned his robes over his torn shirt while Charles did similarly.

They opened the door on a trembling, white-faced Scorpius Malfoy.

\---

 _Maybe I should come back later,_ Scorpius thought as a strange noise drifted through the door – someone crying, maybe? It was hard to imagine Professor Lehnsherr crying. Anyway he'd already knocked.

There was such a long pause before the door opened that he began shifting foot to foot – maybe he'd come back later after all – but this really was important. At least he thought it was important, it _felt_ important... it felt scary, at least... but maybe he was overreacting, maybe he ought to do as the headmaster said and not tell anyone...

Finally the door opened. To Scorpius's surprise, Professor Xavier stood in the doorway beside Professor Lehnsherr. They both looked a little strange, shaky and flushed. Professor Xavier had a red mark on his neck.

"Can I help you, Malfoy?" Professor Lehnsherr said, rough-voiced.

Scorpius swallowed, heard his own voice come out rather small. "If you have a moment, sir, I'd like to talk to you."

Professor Lehnsherr opened his mouth, and his expression made Scorpius think he was about to get sent away to come back later, but Professor Xavier touched Professor Lehnsherr's arm and said, "Of course, Scorpius. Come on in. I'm sure it's important or you wouldn't be here so early."

Scorpius nodded and let himself be ushered into the room and seated at the table, already laid out with tea and three kinds of toast.

It was strange to see a teacher's personal chambers. Professor Lehnsherr didn't seem to have much in the way of decoration, just a few books and lamps, and a stone hawk on the mantle. But then, this was his first year, maybe he hadn't finished unpacking.

"Have some toast, Scorpius," Professor Xavier said, but Scorpius shook his head. His stomach felt too cold and shaky for eating. "Some tea, then?" He nodded, hesitantly, and Professor Xavier glanced up at Professor Lehnsherr. "Some tea, please, Erik?"

Like seeing his personal rooms, it felt strange and invasive to hear someone call a professor by his first name. Scorpius had had enough strange and invasive things in the last twenty-four hours. He felt himself shivering and tried to stop, watching Professor Lehnsherr step off to the counter to get the teapot and a new cup.

"Milk and sugar, please?" Scorpius asked, and Professor Lehnsherr nodded, though he still looked grumpy.

Professor Xavier was watching him with concerned eyes, somehow sharp and gentle at the same time. Scorpius didn't mind Professor X, as they mostly called him – he seemed very nice – but as Scorpius was too young for Divination classes, he didn't really know the man. He'd come here to see Professor _Lehnsherr_ and he couldn't help wondering what Professor X was doing here and whether it would be possible to talk to Professor Lehnsherr alone.

He caught himself staring at the red mark on Professor Xavier's neck, and the Professor pseudo-casually put a hand over it and blushed.

Well. If Scorpius were being honest with himself, he wasn't _entirely_ confused about what Professor X might be doing here. Not after what Peter Parkinson said his uncle said about Lehnsherr and Xavier when they were all kids together. Of course that was just a rumor, but looking at them now, together at this hour of the morning, Professor X wearing a sweater Scorpius recognized as Lehnsherr's, it wasn't hard to believe.

"Is it true you're Muggle-born, sir?" Scorpius asked.

Professor Xavier blinked. "Yes. I hadn't meant that to be any sort of secret."

"I guess that explains it, then."

"Explains what?"

"Why Professor Lehnsherr wouldn't let anyone speak ill of Imogen Cox. For being Muggle-born, I mean. He caught… someone calling her a M-Mudblood and... spoke to us very severely about it."

"...I see," Xavier said softly, smiling slow and with a sort of _light_ to it. "And what do you think I have to do with it?"

Scorpius glanced nervously at Professor Lehnsherr, only a few steps away, stirring milk into the teacup. "Well, everyone knows that the Professor… thinks very highly of you, sir."

"I think rather highly of Professor Lehnsherr, too," Xavier said. "Even more highly now than I did a moment ago."

Professor Lehnsherr brought the tea, then, and sat down next to Xavier, and he was blushing too, why was everyone blushing, and Professor Xavier looked at him with this warm, happy expression that made Scorpius _really_ wonder if he shouldn't have come back later.

It was too late now, though, so he just took a long drink of his tea. The warmth of it felt wonderful. He wasn't sure he'd stopped shivering since he left the Headmaster's office the night before.

"All right, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Lehnsherr said. "You said you needed to talk to me?"

Scorpius's eyes wandered over to Professor Xavier.

"I can go," Xavier said. "If it's something personal." He was already getting up, but to his own surprise Scorpius shook his head.

"It's all right, you can stay. I don't mind."

Xavier sat back down again.

Scorpius took another long, warm drink before he could even start trying to explain. "My father," he began. "My father told me, before I came here, that if anyone ever... touched me in a way that made me... uncomfortable... a teacher or another student or whoever. To write to him right away. And to tell a teacher that I trusted."

Lehnsherr and Xavier had both gone very pale and still.

"He didn't, he didn't touch me," Scorpius said hurriedly. "He never did actually touch me. Just told me to take my shirt off. And it was... it was weird and Dad said _uncomfortable_ and it was, so I. Thought I should. And he said -- Professor Shaw said -- not to tell anyone but Dad said to tell anyway." He looked down into his teacup, feeling a little sick.

"Yes," Professor Xavier said. "You absolutely should tell. Can you start at the beginning and tell us what happened? Did Professor Shaw take you to his room?"

"No, his office. It was late, I was on my way back from the Great Hall after dinner. He passed me in the corridor and said come with him, so I went. And he shut the door and said to take off my shirt. I thought it was weird but he's the headmaster so I did it. He said to stand against the wall. Then he asked if there was any chance I was adopted, like was my mum really my stepmum or anything. I told him no, I look just like my dad and have the same birthmark as my mum's brother, so I don't think I could possibly be adopted. And he said good, and hold still, this will hurt a little." He swallowed hard. "It hurt a _lot_."

"What did?" Professor Lehnsherr asked.

"The spell. He cast a spell at me. Dark green light, thick as my arm, hit me right in the chest. And it hurt really bad but it didn't seem to... damage anything? Like, it stopped hurting after a minute and then I was fine."

Professor Lehnsherr's voice was a croak. "Did Professor Shaw seem angry or disappointed at how the spell turned out?"

"No, he seemed really happy, actually. Told me I'd be fine, and not to tell anyone, and that I'd understand soon."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know."

"Scorpius," Professor Xavier said. "What was the incantation he used?"

"It was something with _lotus. Lotus letalis,_ I think?" He began unbuttoning his shirt. "Lotus – that's a flower, right? Is that what this is? This mark it left on me?" He opened his shirt hesitantly, revealing the black flower-shape in the center of his chest.

"Yes," Professor Xavier said faintly, and if Scorpius had thought they were pale before, they both looked like parchment now. "Yes, that is indeed a lotus."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has FANART!! by Elsian:  
> http://elsian.tumblr.com/post/17068265133/fanart-for-the-better-men-found-here


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shaw's evil plan is more or less revealed.

“Well, I’m happy to give you a clean bill of health, lad,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I know your new… decoration still burns, but that will fade over the next day or two. Here, have a bit of chocolate, it’ll help.”

Scorpius still looked pale and subdued, Charles thought, but the quivering tension had faded. Now that there were no less than three stable adults aware of the situation – none of them angry, dismissive, or noticeably hysterical – the secret seemed to have become less frightening and burdensome.

“Will it go away?” he asked now, nibbling chocolate with one hand and poking at the lotus mark with the other.

“I’m afraid not,” Madam Pomfrey said. “You know how it is – magic can make quick work of mundane injuries, but something caused by a curse? No, I’m sorry, lad, you’re stuck with it. But think of it this way – you’ve got a scar from surviving a death curse, just like Harry Potter!”

Scorpius actually looked more cheered by this than Charles might have expected a Malfoy to be.

While the boy finished his chocolate, Madam Pomfrey took Charles and Erik aside.

“I know there’s all manner of madness goes on in this place, much of which I never get the full story of,” she said, “but _death curses_ – the _Headmaster_ – ”

“Believe me, Madam Pomfrey,” Charles said, “we’re just as alarmed as you are. Erik and I will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this. For now, I’d be pleased if you could keep Scorpius with you today. I don’t think he’s in any danger, but it seems… unnecessarily risky to leave him unsupervised.”

“Certainly. I can make him useful, even.”

“He might appreciate that. Take his mind off things.”

They took their leave of Scorpius, who seemed relieved not to be sent on to class, and walked back to Charles’s chambers in silence.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Charles leaned against it for support, almost laughing to think what he'd been doing against this very door so few minutes ago, and how little he felt like doing it now.

Erik stepped up beside him, and Charles fumbled for his hand, clutched it like a lifeline. "It really is Shaw. It's not... we're not in the land of suspicions and maybes anymore, are we. We have to act."

"I wish we could wait for the Aurors," Erik said, "but he said the boy would understand _soon_..."

"How soon, that's the question, and what exactly... but we know that, don't we, almost." Charles forced himself off the door, letting go of Erik's hand to pace the room. "We know Shaw has cast this spell twice, once on a Muggle-born, who died, and once on a pureblood, who lived, apparently to his satisfaction."

"The questions, about whether he could possibly be adopted—"

"Making _sure_ he was pureblood. Erik, there's only one reason he would need to test it that way. He was making sure it would only affect Muggle-borns—"

"—so that when he casts it over the entire school, the purebloods will be unharmed."

The entire school at _least._ There had been maps on Shaw's desk, one with a circle drawn round the entirety of Great Britain... 

Shaw's desk. Charles stopped in the middle of the room, hand at his temple. "There was something," he murmured. "Something my mind was trying to tell me, yesterday morning, when you interrupted – I almost had it and it's screaming at me now, there's something I know without knowing it, I need to _know_." He turned on Erik with an almost savage energy. "I have to go to my room, where I know I can pull my mind together. I need the trance, I need to _know._ I need _you_ to go cancel my first class, and yours, and meet me there. I'm going to need you to help me. Can you do that?"

"Yes." Erik took Charles's face in his hands. "I'll do whatever you need me to do, Charles. We've got this."

Charles placed his hands over Erik's wrists, closed his eyes a moment. "We'd better. Or hundreds of children are going to die. Now go."

 

Erik tried to look calm, perfectly normal, and still navigate the hallways as speedily as possible. He'd already put up a CLASS CANCELED sign in the Divination room and was headed for Potions when he crossed paths with Angel on a staircase.

"Good morning, Erik," Angel said, looking awkward and sad, and Erik nearly passed her with nothing more than an acknowledging nod – then stopped.

"Angel," he said. "How was Shaw's 'thing' out at the lake last night?"

She blinked at him. "Oh, it was... all right. I guess. It was... kind of strange, actually."

"Tell me."

"Well..." She glanced around nervously, stepped closer. "Shaw gave some kind of speech about a new era beginning. Everyone was pretty confused. Then he had us stand in a circle and brought a bunch of people into the middle – Azazel's boyfriend was one – a few of them were students, looking like they'd been dragged out of bed! And he did some kind of spell, nothing I recognized, and then he... he bled on them. He cut his arm, and painted on their foreheads with the blood." She swallowed hard, and Erik realized that, more than nervous, she actually she looked _scared_.

Erik's belly felt cold and hollow. "Who did he mark with the blood?"

"Gertie Goyle, Jana Crouch, and Mort Toynbee – they were the students."

"Toynbee's Muggle-born," Erik murmured. "The other two – aren't they half-blood?"

"Yes. He said something about purifying them, protecting them."

"And the adults?"

"Azazel's boyfriend, Janos, like I said. The others, I didn't know them, but Professor Shaw said their names... there was Jason something, Windham, Wyngarde? And a Nathaniel Essex, he was scary looking. A woman, one of the Black half-bloods. And another man... Stryker. Last name Stryker."

William Stryker, Erik knew, was a high-ranking Ministry official – Muggle-born, the rumors said, despite his draconian pro-pureblood leanings. Nathaniel Essex he'd seen mentioned in the newspapers, wanted for some particularly bizarre and brutal murders. It gave him chills to think of the man being on Hogwarts grounds.

"What do you think it means, Erik?" Angel whispered. "What's going on?" 

"Nothing good. Keep your head down, and stay away from Shaw." Erik took a deep breath and continued down the stairs.

 

When he got to Charles's room, he found the door unlocked for him and Charles cross-legged before the window, eyes closed.

"Get a pen and paper, Erik," he said without moving or looking up. His voice was soft and even, dreamy, almost inflectionless. "Muggle-style, no messing with inkwells."

Erik took a pen and a sheet of Muggle paper from the desk, and a book to brace it on, and took a seat.

"I'm in Shaw's office right now," Charles said. "Remembering. Looking through his desk. I need you write down everything I say."

"I'm ready."

"Books on administration and leadership. Books on dueling. Star charts. Come back to that. Student records – Imogen Cox and Dolly Dursley. Maps. Come back to those. Diagrams of the following: Dolohov's Curse. Body-Bind Curse. Basilisk's Gaze. Sectumsempra. Levicorpus. One unlabeled. Come back to those. Inside the drawer. Parchment – didn't read it. Family photograph. Wand case. _Wand._ " His eyes snapped open, though they remained unfocused. The pupils were drawn down to pinpricks. "Long. Black. _Blackthorn_ , or I'm a goblin. Did I see – I did. A glimmer of gold at the base. Lehnsherr mark. _Erik._ "

"My wand." Erik's vision was clouding over with rage. He began pacing the room, as an alternative to destroying it. _"My wand._ Why? Why would he… Lehnsherr wands are valuable, yes, but what good does it do him locked in a drawer? He can't use a stolen wand openly – can't use it all, not _my_ wand, a blackthorn isn't going to hop to for any old wizard who picks it up—" He stopped cold.

_"You don't lose a wand in a practice duel."  
"True, and yet nothing about that duel felt particularly practice-like, did it?"_

Erik was light-headed now with rage.

"Calm your mind, Erik," Charles said distantly. "We're not done. Shaw's coming in the door now, I don't have time to look at anything else, but I can go back. Go backward."

Erik forced himself back into the seat, and for a few minutes Charles was quiet, eyes closed, breath evening out again. "Unlabeled diagram," he said at last. "Give me paper."

Erik turned the paper over, passed it to him with the pen and book. Charles's eyes opened again, in a peculiar half-seeing way, and he began to draw, duplicating the diagram held in his mind's eye. It took several minutes; the diagram was complex, and Charles, he knew, hadn't been trained to understand it, making it that much harder for him to reproduce.

Erik, on the other hand, had been subject to Shaw's extracurricular studies. Long before the diagram was complete, he could tell it was shaping up into something very, very nasty. _Not_ Avada Kedavra; too complex, too conditional, with too much power fueling it. _Way_ too much power.

The kind of power you'd need a Lehnsherr wand to have even a hope of controlling.

"Now maps," Charles said, setting the diagram aside. Erik handed him more paper, but Charles waved it off, closed his eyes again. "Transcribe," he said instead, and began describing the maps and the notations on them.

Erik's hand around the pen was aching by the time he finished. Charles was breathing deeper, less smoothly, obviously struggling with... something. Erik wondered if he'd ever held a Divination this long, at least in this uneven state of half-trance.

After the maps, he took a few moments to simply breathe, then asked Erik, "What else? What else said 'come back'?"

"Star charts."

"Star charts. Oh, dear, I was rubbish at Astronomy."

Not true, Erik reflected. Charles's brilliant mind had always made short work of whatever was thrown at it. His Astronomy marks had fallen short of perfect only because it was so very difficult for them to do their star-gazing homework without it turning into something else entirely.

He took a moment – just one – to let a few of those memories flow over him, warm and sweet, and glory in the newly-opened possibility of repeating some of them. The thought itself was like a star in the encroaching darkness of whatever nightmare Shaw was orchestrating.

Charles was silent, giving Erik nothing to transcribe; his eyes moved behind their lids, fingers twitching. What was he seeing?

 _"Samhain,"_ he said at last. "Write that down. _Write it._ "

Erik did, then watched as Charles's posture began wilting, breath coming rougher. "Charles?"

"I'm coming out. Wait."

One last deep breath, and Charles opened his eyes. Looked round the room blinking, as if surprised to find it still here.

"Samhain?" Erik said.

"Samhain.” Charles looked tired, but not, to Erik’s relief, as unearthly as he had a few moments ago. “Today's Halloween, my friend. Samhain starts at midnight. Any spell cast at precisely that moment will get an extra kick of... fairly alarming proportions. And the star charts on Shaw's desk, they were all devoted to calculating when _exactly_ that moment will be." 

"Tonight, then. Whatever he's planning."

"He did say _soon_."

"There's something else, Charles." Erik related what Angel had told him of the strange ceremony at the lake.

Charles let out a slow breath. "Protecting his followers. The few Muggle-borns he considers worth saving, half-bloods who might still be vulnerable to the curse."

"He has my wand," Erik said, clawing fingers through his hair. "My wand. Not many wands can channel this kind of power without exploding halfway through, but a Lehnsherr wand could do it. He had to have known, from the first draft of this spell, that he would need a Lehnsherr wand."

A memory scratched at the back of his mind – an angry man grimly escorted to the door, a half-finished wand thrown on the fire – his father explaining _"Sometimes our wands attract the wrong kind of customer. We're under no obligation to make a wand for someone, if we have reason to fear what he'll do with it."_

But there was more than one way to get a wand. Winning it in a duel, for instance.

"Well played, Professor," Erik breathed. Oh, he _had_ been played – all those missing ingredients, those Power-Boost Potion ingredients, giving him just enough juice to run an abbreviated version of the spell, to test it on Imogen Cox and Scorpius Malfoy.

Charles picked up the diagram he'd made. "What do you make of this? It's not _Avada Kedavra_ after all, is it?"

"No. Too complex, and much too big." Erik ran his eyes along the swirling lines and notations. "This was never designed to kill just one person. It takes too much juice to even get off the ground to be practical as a dueling spell. And do you see this whole set of matrices here? Those are conditionals, setting rules for who it will affect and who it will pass by. I don't recognize all the script, but these symbols are 'strength' and 'blood.'" He looked through it some more. "The other diagrams... Body-Bind, basilisk gaze... they're for paralysis. That's what he spliced into this. That's how it kills. Your heart, your brain, they just... stop."

"Is there a counter-curse?"

"I can't imagine trying to counter something this powerful and intricate. It would take months of study."

"How powerful? You said it took a lot of juice. Is it a group-cast?"

"No. There's not many Dark spells that can stand that kind of cooperative energy, and this is as Dark as it gets. But for one wizard to power this... It would burn him to a crisp, even with a Lehnsherr wand, I don't think the caster could possibly survive." Self-sacrifice, even for a bright new Muggle-free world, surely wasn't Shaw's style... Erik's eye was drawn to a sort of cul-de-sac off to the side of the spell's origin point. "This is a redirect," he said through suddenly numb lips. "Separating the spell's caster from its energy source."

Charles went white. They both knew what that meant.

Shaw wasn't sacrificing _himself_ to power the spell.

"Well, we know when and where, then," Charles said hoarsely. "Midnight, and Cerebro."

\---

 

"Good morning, Auror Office, this is Auror Munoz, how may I help you?"

"I need to speak to Mr. Potter. It's quite urgent." Charles could only assume that the Auror Office had, quite sensibly, set its communication fireplaces some feet above the floor, because his disembodied head (he would never get used to this method of communication) was at eye level with the exhausted-looking Auror Munoz.

"That won't be possible, sir," Munoz said. "Mr. Potter is away from the office at the moment, and already has a stack of messages a foot high. I will, of course, add your message to the stack."

"No, you don't understand, this is _quite urgent_ —"

"It always is, sir, and then it turns out to be a drunk goblin with a trained weasel and poor taste in jokes." He held up a hand to forestall Charles's protest, looking apologetic. "Sir, it is the policy of this office that all reports of Dark activity will be addressed within twenty-four hours, in the order in which they're received. Considering the volume of reports we receive daily, you truly cannot expect more than that."

"But – listen to me, I'm Charles Xavier, the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts—"

"Are we really playing the 'don't you know who I am' card, sir?" 

Charles suppressed a scream of frustration. "No."

"Glad to hear it. Now, I'm ready to take down your report. We ask that you be calm and succinct."

"The Headmaster of Hogwarts intends to cast a death-curse over the entirety of the school – if not the country – targeting Muggles and Muggle-borns and powered by a human sacrifice. Is that bloody succinct enough for you?"

The Auror's quill paused a moment, then he calmly finished writing what Charles had said – word for word, near as Charles could tell – and looked up at him. The dull, tired boredom in his eyes had sharpened entirely away. "And how did you come by this knowledge?"

 _With great difficulty._ Charles took a breath, trying to think where to begin.

The fireplace around him suddenly went dark, and he found himself entirely back at the fireplace in his office.

"What the – Did that git hang up on me?"

"I don't think so," Erik said uneasily, giving him a hand up. "I think the Floo Network went down."

"Went _down?_ The Floo Network doesn't just _go down_ , it wasn't built by bloody Microsoft, magic doesn't just glitch up without a reason." He tried to re-establish the connection. Nothing. Not even a flicker.

He tried to contact Raven's office, as a test. Nothing.

"We can try my office," Erik said.

"Yes, let's." The words chirped artificially on their way out of his mouth.

The fireplace in Erik's office did not respond either.

"Right. Right-o." Charles felt his way down into a chair. "He knows, then."

"That's one possibility. It _could_ – however slim the possibility – be a coincidence." Erik, Charles could tell, was trying very hard to be calm and logical. "Even if Shaw did this, he may have thought it pre-emptive, may not even know he cut off a connection. Or he may know the connection took place but not where it connected to."

"Or he could know everything."

Erik sighed. "Or that."

"Well, I got the basics through. Maybe it'll be enough."

"Even if they acted on your information at this very moment, Charles, no one could get here for hours, not without the Floo Network."

"And it may take a full day for my message to work its way through channels. Far too late." Charles got up from the chair and began to pace. "We have to take action ourselves."

"If we catch him by surprise, we can probably kill him."

Charles stared at Erik a moment, trying to decide if he was more appalled by the suggestion or impressed that _Erik_ , teacher's pet, was making it.

"That's a last resort," he said eventually.

"This isn't the time for principles, Charles."

"It's not only that. Suppose we attempt it and fail? He kills us both and then there's no one to stop him. Better to avoid a confrontation, I think; let the Aurors handle that. There's a simpler way, a way to make his entire plan collapse."

"And what's that?"

"The wand. Shaw needs four things to make this spell work: Cerebro, a sacrifice, Samhain, and a Lehnsherr wand. Of all those, we can only reasonably attempt to remove _one_ from the equation, and that's the wand."

"You barely got out of there last time."

"Which is why you'll need to do a significantly better job distracting him this time. I don't care if you have to put on a sparkly blue dress and sing him a love song, you _keep him out of that tower."_

Erik shook his head. "Let me do it this time. I told you already, he's less likely to kill me offhand. And it is my wand – who knows, maybe it'll turn against him if he tries to use it on me."

Charles bit his lip, considered a long moment, then said, "Abracadabra."

Erik blinked. "What?"

"That's the password. It'll open the door."

"What will?"

"Abracadabra."

Erik's forehead furrowed. "What? I can't understand you."

Charles said it again, slowly, enunciating carefully. Erik only shook his head.

"I know you're saying a word, I know I should be able to understand it, but I just... it doesn't make sense, it's garbled."

"I was afraid of that," Charles sighed. "I'll have to ask Professor McGonagall how I'm supposed to pass it to someone – surely I'll need to someday. For now, it looks like I'm the only one allowed to know it."

Erik ran a hand angrily (and distractingly) through his hair. "Fine. I'll keep Shaw busy while you get the wand."

Charles stepped close to Erik, smoothed a caressing hand down his cheek. "I'll be fine, Erik."

Erik pressed his hand over Charles's and closed his eyes. "I'm holding you to that."

\---

Erik paced his office, rearranged books and chairs, rearranged them again. There wasn't much to fiddle with – Erik was a sparse decorator by nature, and what little he'd brought was only half unpacked. If Shaw didn't show up soon, Erik was going to start organizing his books by size and color, and then Charles would kill him for wasting all his hard alphabetizing work.

They had hoped Erik might simply keep an eye on Shaw as he went out and about, but instead had found the man cloistered in his tower, with instructions not to be disturbed. They'd been prepared to take drastic action if Erik's urgent message went unanswered, but to their surprise  
Shaw agreed to meet Erik in his office.

Theoretically. Soon.

Erik found himself against the window, watching a dozen or so students chasing each other across the grass below. It was so very strange being around children. As clearly as he remembered his own student days, it was still hard to imagine himself ever being that young. He  
did not remember himself as small so much as he remembered the world as large...

How many of the children down there were Muggle-born? How many of them would die, lives unlived, if he and Charles failed? How could they ever, for one moment, live with themselves if that happened?

Shaw had worked his ideas of Muggle and Muggle-born inferiority deep into Erik's moldable little mind, he could see it now. And to be fair, he'd had help in the form of independent evidence – Muggles had killed Erik's parents, Muggles had treated an orphan wizard boy like trash. Erik couldn't pretend that he hadn't seen the cruelty, carelessness, and stupidity of Muggles, seen it reflected in their inexplicably magic-touched children.

But he'd seen it in wizards, too, often enough.

Erik knew these children. Some were cruel, and some were stupid, and some were Muggle-born. But he hadn't seen that any of those traits necessarily traveled together. The worst he could say for the Muggle-born students, on the whole, was that they were ignorant. Well, they were here to be educated, were they not?

He wasn't going to let Shaw hurt these children. No matter what it took to stop him.

Or the teachers, for that matter. How many of the teachers were Muggle-born? Alex Summers, for one, and Moira, and—

—and how had it possibly taken his brain this long to acknowledge that if Shaw pulled off his lotus spell, Charles would die?

He leaned hard against the window, trying to breathe through the rising sickness in his throat, through flashing images of Imogen Cox cold and stiff in the mud, of brilliant blue eyes clouded over and still.

Professor Shaw opened his door without knocking. "Yes, Erik? What is this very urgent matter I had to be disturbed for?"

Erik pulled himself upright with a strangled gasp, cleared his throat while trying to clear his mind. "I thought you should know, sir, that it seems the Floo Network has gone down. I was in the middle of a conversation and the connection simply vanished. I tried it from another fireplace with the same result. Do you know what could cause that to happen?"

Shaw cocked his head, a tiny smile quirking his mouth. "So that was you, was it? I don't know whether to be more disappointed or impressed."

"Beg your pardon, sir?" Erik's pulse was suddenly very loud in his ears. He began inching one hand toward his wand.

"I thought surely it was Xavier. I even stopped by his classroom and office on the way here, but there's no sign of the boy. I wonder if he made a run for it? It won't do him any good." Shaw abruptly started, reached into his pocket – Erik tensed, half-drawing his wand – but Shaw only pulled out a glow-ball. Not the usual cool green, but flashing red. 

"Aha," Shaw said with alarming satisfaction. "How very clever. Unfortunately for you and Xavier, my dear Erik, I had magical motion alarms installed in my quarters after a... strange incident a few days ago. I wonder if that was you as well? Ah, well, we can discuss it later."

Erik's wand was already half-drawn, but Shaw was still faster.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight. Cerebro.

Erik woke to a hoarse, blurry voice asking, "Are you going to kill me?"

And Shaw's answer, calm and matter-of-fact. "Yes."

The air tasted like Cerebro. Erik forced his eyes open, and they focused on the white marble altar, with Dolly Dursley struggling, weak and sluggish, against the straps lashing her to it.

"Why?" she asked, and Shaw, neat in professorial robes, leaned in to answer.

"Your sacrifice will lead to a new world, a better world, populated only by the better species of man. A world where every child has pure, strong magic and the right to use it openly. What kills the Muggles will only make us stronger." He gave her a considering look. "I'll understand if that comes as small consolation."

"You're so full of shit," Charles croaked beside him. "If you were really so righteous, it'd be you powering the spell."

"Come now, Professor Xavier," Shaw said, turning to them with a wide smile, "what purpose would that serve, when this girl is going to die anyway? And besides, there are so many _more_ of these spells to cast – this one ought to cover all of the United Kingdom, and perhaps the coast of France, but that's only the beginning. _Someone_ has to take charge."

Dolly's pink-and-gold masquerade costume was crumpled and torn, tears trailing down her round cheeks. She continued to tug and twist against her bonds, far too weakly to do any good; drugged, Erik realized, remembering the missing bottle of valerian extract.

He tore his eyes away from Dolly to look at Charles, and only when he saw that Charles was bound hand and foot, facedown on the floor, did he realize he was as well. Charles offered him a watery smile.

"Ah, so Professor Lehnsherr has finally decided to join us," Shaw said, moving away from the altar to loom over them. "Good morning, Erik – or evening – but then, it'll be morning again, technically, in a very few minutes." He prodded Erik with a toe. "Come now, up. You want to be clear-headed for this decision."

Erik laboriously managed to roll over and maneuver onto his knees. He thought of pushing to his feet, lunging – but his body language must have communicated his plan before it was half-formed, because Shaw said "None of that now" and was suddenly pointing a gun at Erik's head.

"Professor Xavier was carrying this, if you can believe it," he said. "I've also relieved you both of your wands, of course. Why, Erik, does this bother you? How interesting."

Erik had found himself utterly and unexpectedly distracted by the sight of the gun barrel, the black hole, the last thing his mother and father had seen. It turned his blood to ice in a way that a wand never could. He dragged his eyes away from it. "What decision, Shaw?"

"Whether to help me. Oh, I know you're going to protest. I had intended to keep you unconscious for the event, since you were so inexplicably working against me. But then I thought… perhaps it wasn't entirely inexplicable. Perhaps the problem was your rumored attachment to this particular Muggle-born." The gun barrel moved to Charles, now also on his knees, and Erik desperately wanted it back, wanted it pointed anywhere but there. Charles stared it down, as opposed to staring down it, looking grim and composed. "So I thought I would offer you a chance, Erik, to save your little friend. In exchange for performing the spell yourself."

Erik stared at Shaw. After a shocked moment, something resembling a smile cracked his lips. "The wand won't work for you. _My_ wand won't work for you. Even after you defeated me – that's a debatable win at best, and you've had no trial to bond it to you."

"Oh, it'll work for me," Shaw said. "It does as I command. It only… drags its feet a bit. The spell might well go off without a hitch. But it might not – might have decreased range, or let a few survivors through. I don't want to risk that at this point in the game. So, Erik, your options. First, sit here in bonds, and watch your friend die only inches away. Or second, save your friend, cleanse the British Isles of their semi-human infestation, and take your place at my side as I always intended."

"Always intended," Erik repeated. "Shaw, I find it hard to believe you ever intended me as anything but a tool. A Lehnsherr wand with convenient sacrificial lamb attached. How long did it take you to figure out the redirect? You didn't even start to try, did you, until your idiot lamb lost his wand in the lake, and it looked like you'd have to start from scratch?"

Shaw looked taken aback for a moment, then amused. "Very well, I confess – at the time that I first brought you to Hogwarts, I thought it inevitable that Lotus Letalis in its full form would kill its caster. Fortunately for you, since I would otherwise have simply killed you and taken your wand then, with no one the wiser."

"Instead you decided to raise me loyal enough to you and your ideals that I'd sacrifice myself for them."

"I'm very pleased that that turned out to be unnecessary. You're far too powerful a wizard to be wasted like that, not when such a perfect example of Muggle-born worthlessness will do just as well."

"So set on _my_ wand, all this time – there are other Lehnsherr wands in the world, you know." Something was shifting into place in Erik's mind, some memory shuffling to the forefront…

"Well, I wanted a blackthorn, you see, if I could manage it. They're particularly good at this sort of thing. My own would have been blackthorn, if I'd had my choice."

"But you didn't." Erik barely heard his own voice, breathless and distant, as it all came clear in his mind. Was this what Divination felt like? "You're not loyal enough to attract a blackthorn pre-made, and when… when my parents agreed to make one for you..." A half-finished _blackthorn_ wand thrown on the fire, his father's voice _We're under no obligation to make a wand for someone, if we have reason to fear what he'll do with it_. The angry customer escorted to the door, looking back over his shoulder – how had he ever forgotten that face, even distorted with rage and so many years younger, Sebastian Shaw's face, eyes locking on the blackthorn wand in the hand of the wandmakers' son, standing wide-eyed on the stairs. "You hired the Muggles," he said. "To come back and steal – not my wand, surely, a stolen wand wouldn't have worked. Your own half-finished wand? But it was already destroyed. And then my parents – came back early—"

Shaw nodded gravely. "Now that you know the truth, I can finally apologize. I never meant for your parents to be harmed, Erik. That was all Muggle panic and stupidity."

It was astonishing, Erik thought, how deeply insincere Shaw could sound even when speaking the absolute truth. Erik had no trouble believing that his parents' deaths had been no particular intention of Shaw's.

Too bad for Shaw that he didn't care.

"It was, oh, days and days, maybe weeks, before I remembered that the Lehnsherrs' son had had a blackthorn," Shaw had continued. "By then, you'd been shuffled off into a labyrinth of Muggle paperwork and incompetence. Your papers were crossed with another boy's, Max Eisenhardt – both from Dusseldorf and you looked very similar – it took me two years to track you down. Fortunately for you, as I said before, since it gave me time to realize that better than controlling the wand would be to control its wielder. And then you _lost_ the wand, idiot child, and it was only a year or so ago that the thing finally washed up again. Irritating, that McGonagall survived that carefully engineered heart attack to name a successor, but I managed to get the position anyway. And now here we are." Keeping the gun trained on Charles, Shaw pulled a wand from his robes. Fourteen inches of battered but sturdy blackthorn wood. Erik _wanted_ it like he imagined Muggle junkies wanted their drugs, wanted to hold it in his hands and drive the point right through Shaw's heart.

"Time to make your choice, Erik."

Erik kept his eyes on the wand, battling to keep his face impassive, his interest believable. "You say Charles can be protected?"

"It's not guaranteed, you understand – I don't want you to accuse me of dealing in bad faith if it fails – but nearly so. Reliable enough that I've entrusted my few, but valued, Muggle-born followers to its care."

"Last night, at the lake."

"You _have_ been snooping about. Yes, precisely. And if you decline, after all, his death is quite certain."

Erik watched the wand Shaw was rolling absently back and forth in his fingers. "Very well. I accept." He tried not to see the shocked rage on Charles's face.

"Excellent! I had so hoped you would see reason." Shaw smiled and loosed Erik's bonds with a gesture.

"Erik, what are you _doing?"_

"Whatever it takes to keep you safe," Erik hissed, shaking the ropes off his wrists and dragging Charles forward into a hard, desperate kiss. Charles fought him, trying to jerk his head away, but Erik whispered "Trust me" against his lips and he stilled, drew back to lock eyes with him for a single searching moment.

Then he pulled away. "Don't do this, Erik," he said, sounding rather convincingly heartbroken, but he understood what Erik was doing, _surely_ he did.

"I have to." Erik turned back to Shaw, watching with one eyebrow raised, and said, "Do it. Lay the protection."

Shaw drew a knife from his robes and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a scabbed cut on the underside of his forearm. He laid another beside it, and ran a fingertip through the blood. When he reached for Charles's head, Charles nearly tipped himself over dodging away; Erik had to hold him still while Shaw, murmuring a long incantation Erik could not begin to decipher, painted on a scarlet X on his forehead, surrounded by a circle.

The moment Erik released his head, Charles twisted to wipe the blood on his shoulder, turning the symbol to a red smear.

"No matter," Shaw assured him. "The spell is finished. And now, Erik, midnight is fast approaching. When this," he set a glow-ball on the edge of the altar, "flares white, cast the spell immediately. I should have just enough time to teach it to you."

The wand was practically humming with excitement in Erik's hand, and he could almost swear he felt the grip _snuggle_ into his skin. The energy coursing through it felt just a little different than he remembered from his childhood – rougher, wilder. As if the wand had gone a bit feral in its long solitude. Very possibly a cause for alarm, Erik knew, but he couldn't help reacting with something closer to fierce welcome. _Glad to have you back, old friend. Show me what you've learned._

Shaw was walking him through the spell – incantation _Lotus letalis amplexus_ in its maximum-range form – with very intricate, specific gestures, including one to indicate Dolly as the power source. Erik practiced it dutifully, pulling the point of the wand across Dolly's throat.

She looked up at him, shivering, hope and pleading and terror warring for space in her eyes, _please be pretending, please don't kill me, help me, help me._ Erik smoothed her hair back and, while Shaw was busy explaining the next gesture, murmured a spell under his breath.

Every knot in the room immediately loosened, even his own shoelaces. Dolly's eyes widened as she eased a hand free – Erik touched her wrist, _not yet, not yet_.

The easiest way, he figured, to ensure that this spell did not get cast tonight, was to simply let midnight come – and go. At that point Shaw would flip his lid, and they would all need to be able to move quickly. Until then, best to play along, lest Shaw decide to try the spell himself after all.

"One minute until midnight," Shaw said, and Erik began counting down in his head. He back toward Charles.

Charles had already worked free of his ropes and was creeping, slowly, silently, across the floor. Toward the gun that Shaw, in all his wizardly disregard of Muggle weapons, had left unattended on the floor.

Erik felt his eyes widen for the tiniest moment before he could control his expression. And Shaw, seeing, pulled out his own ash wand and turned around.

Charles dove for the gun—

_"Crucio!"_

—and fell back with a strangled scream. The sound seemed almost to blind Erik; he threw a hard punch to the back of Shaw's head, but Shaw anticipated him, dodged and spun and Summoned the gun to his hand—

Then screamed as Dolly sank her teeth deep into his arm.

He snatched his arm free with a force that tumbled her off the altar, turned on her with the gun, face a mask of rage.

Erik stepped between them, felt a flare of astonishing pain before he was aware of hearing the gunshot, tried to grab for the gun but somehow his body just wasn't working quite right, he was falling down...

He was aware of Dolly sobbing brokenly, a red stain spreading on her arm. How could she be—? He looked down at himself. The wound was in his leg – oh, yes, the pain was localizing there now. The bullet must have gone straight through him and hit Dolly anyway. What a waste of his effort. _Get up_ , he told himself savagely, and almost achieved it before his leg buckled again.

Shaw tucked the gun away, grabbed Dolly by the arm – digging his fingers into her wound – and dragged her back onto the altar, screaming and kicking. He had the blackthorn wand in his hand. Erik didn't remember dropping it.

Dolly had kicked the glow-ball off the edge of the altar, but it was still brightly visible on the floor, starting to flash white, closer and closer together.

Erik made another attempt to stand and nearly blacked out. There was a swift-growing puddle of blood around him now. He reached out a hand, _"Accio wand!"_ – it quivered in Shaw's grip, and Shaw turned to kick Erik in the head.

The glow-ball flared white, solid and steady, and Shaw raised the wand over Dolly.

Charles lunged past Erik, throwing himself onto Shaw just as he opened his mouth for the spell.

They tumbled across the floor of Cerebro, a tangle of shouts and blows, a hard elbow to Charles's temple, a solid punch to Shaw's teeth. It didn't take long. It didn't have to. When Shaw fought free with a kick to Charles's ribs, the glow-ball had gone dark.

Shaw stared at it a moment, his face going white, eyes flat as coins, in the most frightening expression Erik had ever seen.

He aimed the wand at Charles and screamed _"Lotus Letalis!"_

A beam of dark green light, thick and solid as his arm, ripped itself from the tip of the wand. Charles, just pushing to his feet, caught it in the small of his back. His spine arched, almost elegantly, head snapping back. He seemed to balance there a long, impossible moment.

Then he dropped to the floor without a sound.

And now, _now_ Erik found he could stand, that he could _run_ , a not-very-human scream ripping through his throat, and Shaw turned toward him, smirking a little as he brought the gun to bear.

The gun, of course, because the wand would probably refuse to harm its true master. The fact that Erik had a gut-level horror of dying looking down a gun barrel was, perhaps, a bonus.

It didn't matter. Erik was already calling his wand, had been from the moment Shaw cast the lotus spell, calling it to his hand in a way he didn't even know he could do, there was no coherent spell involved, he just _called_ it and it _came_ , jerking free of Shaw's grip even as he drew the gun, and Erik didn't even have to say _Protego_ , only half-think it and he wasn't even quite sure the wand had touched his hand yet before the shield sprang into being around him, at the very moment that Shaw pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the shield and bounced straight backward, hitting Shaw between the eyes.

He fell back with a dull thump onto the floor.

For a minute the only sound in Cerebro was Erik's labored breathing. The shield hung shimmering before him for a moment, then faded away.

He took a few heavy, painful steps and stood over Shaw's spread-eagle body, wand at the ready. But the man's eyes were unmistakably empty, a neat round hole between them, a pool of blood and... messier things... slowly spreading beneath his head. The blackthorn wand hummed happily in Erik's hand.

Dolly's quiet sobs drew Erik's eye; she was huddled at the foot of the altar, teary and shocked, wrapping a piece of her torn costume around the wound in her arm.

Charles was still perfectly still.

Erik's leg gave out completely just as he reached Charles; he half-knelt-half-fell at his side, gathered him up – "Charles, Charles, please, Charles—"

A wave of light-headed relief nearly took him to the floor when Charles's eyes fluttered open, breath coming out in a choked pain-noise followed by "Erik?"

Erik crushed him to his chest, couldn't pull back even far enough to kiss him, contented himself with pressing hard, half-formed kisses into the side of his neck while Charles twined his arms weakly around him.

"Dolly – is Dolly—"

"She's fine. She's alive, anyway," Erik said. "And I'm…" He huffed a slightly hysterical laugh glancing down at his solid-red trouser leg. "I'm very possibly bleeding out. We should get out of here. Come on." He tried to help Charles to his feet.

Nothing happened.

"Charles?"

"I... I can't," Charles said. "I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs."

Erik tried to pick him up, and that turned out to be the very last thing his gunshot wound could tolerate. He collapsed, half on top of Charles, head spinning and dark clouds swirling over his vision. He wasn't sure if he was hearing noises, loud crashing noises like someone trying to break through Cerebro's walls, or if it was his ears ringing. His ears were ringing and he couldn't see.

"Charles," he said, because that was the only important thing. "Charles."

He could still make out Charles's face, barely, eyes wide and frightened.

And then he couldn't anymore.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Finale (except for epilogue). Be warned: We are no longer G-rated in this chapter.

Consciousness was a choppy sea of agitated voices, the tingle of magic and the smell of flowers. Erik fought to the surface briefly, driven by an urgent fear whose origin he couldn't remember.

Charles's fingers were laced with his, blue eyes calm and warm. "It's all right, Erik. Everything's all right. Go back to sleep, you need rest." His other hand smoothed the hair back from Erik's forehead.

Charles was all right. He could sleep.

 

When he woke for keeps, Erik knew he was in the hospital wing. He felt tired and sore, but the pain in his leg was gone. Charles was asleep beside him – someone had pushed the two beds together, and Charles was halfway onto Erik's, lips pressed loosely against their twined hands. They were both wearing loose white hospital pajamas. Past Charles, Erik could see a table piled with flower arrangements, cards, little stuffed animals – for Dolly, perhaps?

They fell from his attention quickly, in favor of Charles. Erik watched the tiny movements of his sleeping breaths, the occasional flutter of his eyelashes, and laid a hand very gently across his cheek, needing to feel the warmth of his skin.

Shaw was dead. Charles was alive. Erik felt as if nothing could ever bother him again.

"Awake at last, then, Professor Lehnsherr," Madam Pomfrey said, bustling over with a pitcher of blue liquid that smelled like honeysuckle and feet. "Sit up, now, and drink a tall glass of this. How do you feel?"

"Fine," Erik said, sitting up. "How's Charles?"

Charles had blinked awake at Madam Pomfrey's approach; he smiled at Erik now, gentle and tired, and pulled himself to a sitting position. Slowly, awkwardly.

Using only his arms.

Madam Pomfrey saw Erik see it, saw Charles see him see it.

"You drink this, Professor Lehnsherr, and I'll be back to check on you." She handed him a glass of blue liquid and scurried away.

Erik set the glass aside without a glance. "Charles."

"You and Dolly healed right up, not even a scar," Charles said brightly. "Dolly's been released already, shuffled off into the deepest bowels of the Potter Pack until her uncle can take her home. That potion is to help with the blood loss, you really should drink it right away."

"Charles."

"Yours was a straight through-and-through from a completely non-magical weapon, it was no problem at all."

_"Charles."_

The bright smile faltered. "Mine's a little more difficult, of course."

Erik pressed a hand to the side of Charles's face, brushing fingertips through his hair. Charles swallowed and leaned into it.

"What can they do?" With great effort, Erik kept his voice steady, calm.

"Very little. You know how it is with curses."

"Where does... how far can..."

"Nothing below the waist. Nothing at all. Like I've been cut in half." He was shaking, just a little, a subtle vibration under the skin. One that stopped abruptly, halfway down. Erik tightened the hand on Charles's face, pulling him in to wrap his arms around—

"All right, Mr. Potter, but only for a moment," came Madam Pomfrey's beleaguered voice, and a tide of people flowed into the room.

"Professor X, I brought some more flowers, these are from Victoire—"

"Are you feeling better, Professor?"

"Is the headmaster really dead?"

"Did you see the cards we made, Professor Lehnsherr?"

It took Erik a moment to realize he was being addressed; he blinked down into the face of one of his Slytherin first-years. "Cards?"

"Yeah! They're right here!"

Before Erik knew it he was being swarmed by Slytherins, pulling cards off the table of offerings or bearing them in hand, along with flowers and candies and—

A stuffed shark, pointy teeth bared in an expression of unholy glee, held out to him by Scorpius Malfoy.

The herd of them came to a ragged halt, watching his reaction.

Feeling completely flat-footed, Erik looked at the small ocean of hopeful, uncertain eyes, looked at the shark, looked over at Charles, surrounded by his own sea of chattering Ravenclaws. Charles, his cheerful mask firmly in place now, only cocked an eyebrow at him.

Erik forced a grin – all teeth – and accepted the shark.

The children erupted in laughter and applause, and one little girl threw herself on him in what was either an attack or a hug.

"All right, now, that's enough," Madam Pomfrey said, cutting through the babble with the ease of long practice. "All students, out. Your teachers need to rest. Out!"

"Scorpius, stay," a man said, and for the first time Erik consciously noticed the two adults who had come in with the children. The one who had spoken bore a striking resemblance to Scorpius; pale, fair-haired, delicate-featured. The other had black hair, spectacles, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

Erik tried not to stare.

"I'm taking my son home for a few days, Professor Xavier," the pale man said. "I'm sure you can understand." His hand on Scorpius's shoulder was nearly white-knuckled; he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to tuck his little boy into a basket to carry around with him for the indefinite future. Scorpius looked perfectly willing to comply, glancing up at his father with a sheepish sort of adoration.

"Of course," Charles said, and added drily, "Though I'm told it's Professor MacTaggart you'll need to clear that with, she having been appointed Acting Headmistress in my absence. Despite the fact that nobody present had the authority to make any such appointment."

Harry Potter – it _had_ to be Harry Potter – actually blushed a little. "I apologize if I stepped on any toes, Professor, but it did seem rather crucial to have someone in charge, and as she was the only person _not_ in hysterics when we came down from the roof with a dead headmaster and three seriously wounded—"

Charles waved a hand, laughing. "No, no, you're right of course, and she's exactly who I would have picked. And it does look like I'll be out of commission for a f-few days." The sudden, quickly-conquered wobble in his voice cut at Erik like a knife. He wanted these people _gone_ so he could hold Charles tight and warm and tell him everything was going to be fine.

"I haven't introduced myself, I beg your pardon," Potter said, extending a hand to Erik. "Harry Potter, Head Auror – of course you know that, you wrote to me. It's an honor to meet you, Professor Lehnsherr."

"Likewise." Erik shook, transferred his hand in the other man's direction. "I assume you're Draco Malfoy?"

"I am. I can't begin to thank you, Professor – both of you – for the assistance you rendered my son."

"Saving our lives was a good start on the thanks," Charles said. "Erik, you'd already lost consciousness when Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy helped break through the walls into Cerebro. You and Dolly might have both bled to death if not for their timely arrival."

"It was mostly Victor and Armando who did the wall-breaking," Potter said. "They're out there now, gathering evidence. It's quite a mess." He looked a little overwhelmed, for just a moment, and for that moment Erik could see, not Harry Potter, Head Auror, Icon of the Wizarding World, but Harry Potter, father of three, awake for forty-eight hours straight, and less than a decade older than Erik himself.

"How did this timely arrival come about?" Erik asked.

"A confluence of letters, really," Potter said. "The letter you two addressed to me came to my attention within an hour of Victor's arrival with your other letter, and my _old friend_ Draco's very... agitated call concerning the letter from his son. On top of Armando Munoz's report of your cut-off communication, which he brought to my personal attention the moment he was able. I believe the three of us left headquarters within minutes – picked up Mr. Malfoy along the way. At his insistence." The look he exchanged with Draco, as well as the strange emphasis he'd put on the words 'old friend,' spoke of a long and complex history.

"The professors need to rest, Mr. Potter," said Madam Pomfrey.

"I understand that, Madam Pomfrey, but I'm afraid I really must get at least a basic statement of events from them right now. I'm sure you understand, the investigation into Professor Shaw's activities—"

"Investigation?" Erik said, startled. "What investigation? The man's dead, what are you going to do, lock his corpse in Azkaban?"

"Not an unappealing idea," Potter muttered. "But we need evidence of what the man was up to and who else knew about it. No offense to either of you, but we've only your word – and Dolly's, but she was drugged – about what exactly happened in Cerebro last night."

"Of course, we understand," Charles said, laying a hand on Erik's arm to cut off his protest. "We'll tell you whatever you need."

"I'll take my leave, then," Mr. Malfoy said. "Thank you both, once again. If there's ever anything the Malfoy family can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."

"Goodbye, Professor X," Scorpius said, shaking Charles's hand, then Erik's. "I hope you... feel better by the time I get back. And you, Professor Lehnsherr." He looked at them both a moment with overbright eyes, then got control of himself to say, mostly steadily, "Thank you for saving Dolly."

Malfoy winced and steered his son out the door.

"Right then, let's get started." Potter set out a parchment and a dictation quill. "Please start at the beginning."

Over an hour passed before Madam Pomfrey booted Potter from the room and forced the forgotten glass of blue liquid down Erik's throat. "If you need me, ring this bell, I'll always hear it. Charles, love, I've put a... well, I've put a bit of a freeze on your body functions, so you won't need to worry about that until morning. Now get some rest, the both of you." She dimmed the lights behind her as she left.

Charles, who had seemed normal enough during their interview with Potter, dissolved into a state of giddy hysteria as soon as they were alone together. "Erik – Erik, that was _Harry Potter,_ Erik! And Draco Malfoy! We shook hands! With Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Because we saved the world, Erik, I'm pretty sure we saved the world, you and I – millions of lives at the very least. You and I." He leaned against Erik's shoulder, shaking violently with laughter – or something. "Millions of people, Erik. I guess if I had to get cut in half, that was a good way to do it."

And then it definitely wasn't laughter at all, and all Erik could do was put his arms around him and hold on.

\---

Even magic couldn't restore life to the nerves Shaw's curse had killed. But it could, possibly – according to Dr. Foley at St. Mungo's – re-establish communication with the nerves that were still alive, but blocked off by the dead ones.

The first round of healing spells restored significant mobility to Charles's hips. The second resulted in an intermittent flutter of sensation in his right leg.

The third did nothing whatsoever.

Dr. Foley was still full of encouraging noises, but it was clear he was disappointed, even uneasy. "Just get some rest for tonight, Professor. We'll see how things stand in the morning."

Charles was quiet as Erik helped him get ready for bed, in their private room at St. Mungo's. It had been... educational for them both, to discover how much help a person needed, once their legs were dead weight. Magic helped, providing conveniences both minor (Summoning a dropped pencil Charles could no longer bend to retrieve) and life-changing (a float-chair that he could direct in three dimensions with a touch, spells that kept his digestive system moving smoothly and at his own bidding). More than ever, Erik could not imagine how Muggles coped without magic. But even magic could not make it less humiliating to be lifted from chair to toilet by others' hands, and supervised there lest he tip over.

Their three previous nights at St. Mungo's, Charles had kept up an artificially cheerful patter of conversation during the long, awkward process of getting ready for bed. Tonight he was silent, tense, avoiding Erik's eyes. Not for the first time, Erik wondered if Raven wouldn't have been a better choice to accompany Charles here. She might be able to tease him out of this dark mood. Erik didn't have the heart to try. _Let the man be depressed if he wants. He's earned it._

At long last Charles was clean and pajama-clad, bowels magically stoppered for the night. Carefully Erik lifted him from the float-chair and settled him into the bed.

Before he could stand up again, Charles's arms tightened around his neck. Erik found himself frozen, uncertain and hopeful, looking down into blue eyes that flicked down to his lips and back almost too quickly to catch.

So many times in the five days since Shaw's death Erik had wanted to kiss him, touch him, go beyond comfort to passion – but he couldn't press that on Charles at a time like this, with Charles so disgusted and betrayed by his own body, couldn't ask him to start something he couldn't finish, something he might not even want. The numb void below Charles's waist sat between them like a ghost, silent and cold, too frightening to be touched.

But maybe now... maybe he was ready. Erik leaned down—

Charles turned his head away.

And Erik remembered suddenly that he was only half-forgiven. That the lack of physical overtures between them might have nothing at all to do with Charles's injury.

Feeling cold and stung, Erik swallowed heavily and stepped back, busied himself finding another blanket to tuck around Charles. He got cold easily now.

When he turned back, blanket in hand, Charles was wiping away tears.

Erik felt like he'd been stabbed. "Charles?"

Charles flinched, caught out. "No, no, it's nothing, it's just – I'm fine, it's nothing."

"Yes, I can see how unimportant it is," Erik snapped, fists clenching and unclenching helplessly at the bedside. "Are you hurting? Did I hurt you?"

"No."

_"Tell me."_

Charles sighed, pulled himself upright against the headboard. Wiped his face, took a few breaths, visibly steadying himself. "I'm not upset, Erik, truly," he said at last, frighteningly composed. "I understand. I don't blame you."

"For what?"

"For not – not wanting – " The composure began to crack. "You feel the way you feel, you can't help that, you can't help needing someone who's more than half here. I won't try to keep you, just because _I_ have to live like some cross between a monk and a kitten in a basket doesn't mean—"

Erik stared a moment in sheer dawning horror, then yanked Charles forward into a kiss – forceful, _insistent_ , nothing that could be mistaken for pity, and only after a long, bewildered moment did Charles respond, kissing back with desperate enthusiasm.

They were both gasping by the time Erik pulled back to speak. "Have you actually gone mad? I've been in love with you for fifteen years, you think _this_ would change that?"

"But you – you didn't want to kiss me—"

 _"You_ turned away!"

"You looked so – You were having to _think_ about it so hard—"

"I was trying not to push you! How did you put it, that our personal conflicts were only half the problem—"

Charles was laughing now, weakly and with only ironic mirth. His arms, wrapped around Erik during the kiss, did not withdraw. "Fencing in the dark again. Erik, you _killed Shaw_ to protect the Muggles and Muggle-borns. You took a _bullet_ for Dolly Dursley. I think we can safely call that progress." He bumped their foreheads together, letting their mouths drift slowly closer and closer as he spoke, until their lips brushed with every word. "Not that I'm going to stop, shall we say, guiding you in the right direction. Perhaps a carrot-and-stick approach. Rewards for good behavior. Punishments for—"

Erik cut him off, a gentle kiss this time, sweet with relief and joy. Cautiously, he pushed Charles onto his back in the pillows, a move Charles seconded with a helpful wriggle, eagerly pulling Erik down on top of him. The warm shape of Charles pinned underneath him after _so long_ was almost enough to finish him off then and there; Erik steadied himself with a long, trembling breath, cradling Charles's head in his hands like some priceless artifact.

 _Shaw would have cost me this,_ Erik thought. _Cost me_ him. "I can't believe I ever listened to Shaw," he blurted. "Can't believe I ever believed one word he said to me. How does magic make us superior if we use it to sacrifice frightened children, to kill millions of innocent people? Shaw thought I was his pet but I'm not, I don't want to be. I want to be a better man than that."

"You already are." Charles smiled at him, eyes brimming with such frank adoration that Erik nearly glanced over his shoulder to see who he could possibly be looking at.

Then Charles was kissing him again, slow and thorough, and how had he known, how had Charles always known what Erik could be – from the first night they met, _Don't go all Slytherin on me, Erik, you're better than that_... maybe if Charles believed it, it might be true...

Enough philosophy, Erik decided as Charles's teeth scraped across his lower lip. There were more urgent matters at hand. "Charles, I don't – I don't know what to do, for you, I don't know what we _can_ do. Are you sure you're ready—"

Charles silenced him with a finger against his lips, and now his smile held a decidedly wicked glint. "Let's find out."

\---

"Time to wake up, _Herr Headmaster_ , or you're going to be late for your own coronation."

 _"Inauguration,"_ Charles corrected, sleepily and not for the first time. He made no move to get up, mostly because Erik was kissing a slow path down his back. "Mmm..."

He felt Erik smile against his skin, then shuffle further down into the covers to reach the lowest part of his spine, until Charles couldn't actually feel him anymore – which meant the area near the lotus mark in the small of his back. Though he had, thank heaven, regained control of his bowels, seven rounds of healing spells had failed to restore sensitivity to that region of his back, or any significant functionality to... well, areas he'd had very high hopes for. But he was trying not to think about that. 

"Why do you like the bloody mark so much?" Charles murmured. This wasn't the first time Erik had bestowed a peculiar amount of attention there. "I hate it. It's like having a little picture of Shaw tattooed on me forever."

Erik was still a moment, and then Charles found himself being pulled over onto his back, looking up at Erik's concerned face. "You don't really think that."

"Yes, I do."

"And is that what you'd tell Scorpius about _his_ mark? To hide it, hate it, look on it with shame and anger?"

"No, of course not!"

Erik just looked at him expectantly.

Charles sighed.

"You'd tell him to be proud of it," Erik said. "Like Madam Pomfrey did. As a mark of survival. A mark that saved millions of lives. And," he nosed delicately, exploratory, into Charles's throat, "aside from it being on _you,_ which makes it automatically beautiful, it really does look excessively... _touchable,_ those sharp black lines against your fair skin..."

Charles felt like eyes flutter closed, tilting into Erik's ministrations. They had both been delighted to discover that all the favorite spots they had discovered together years ago – particularly Charles's neck and Erik's wrists – were not only still in force but, in Charles's case, seemed to be all the more sensitive now.

"Thought you were worried about being late," he murmured, teasing.

"So I was." Erik moved away, grinning at Charles's noise of surprised protest, and climbed out of bed. "I'll be right back, Charles. There's something I want to show you."

"Already showing me plenty." Charles watched from the bed, cheerfully lecherous, as Erik crossed the room in his birthday suit and opened a drawer. Ten years had had no effect whatsoever on the mind-boggling beauty of Erik's hips. _Mine. All mine._ The thought was less possessive than incredulous.

Erik returned to the bed with something hidden in his hand. He batted away Charles's curious fingers and got comfortable under the covers, skin-to-skin with Charles. Momentarily distracted, Charles ran a hand down Erik's hip and thigh, down to where their legs lay tangled together. Erik had felt strange about doing that at first, but Charles encouraged it; even if he couldn't feel it, he liked to know it was happening, and it helped him stay warm now that the circulation in his legs was impaired.

"After I left Hogwarts," Erik said, "I was able to track down my parents' solicitor. He still had the bit of money my parents left me, and some of their personal effects. Including... these." His face went still in the way Charles knew to associate with extreme nervousness, and he opened his hand.

Inside it was a black velvet box. And inside the box were two gold rings.

Charles felt his mouth fall open.

"My parents' wedding rings," Erik said. "They're linked, magically. If you're thinking of the other person, and want them to know it, their ring will grow warm. Self-fitting, too, of course." He held Charles's eyes, every far-too-still line of his body screaming _Is it too much, is it too soon, is it what you want?_

Charles could barely draw breath enough to speak, but managed to say, "Show me," and hold out his hand.

Erik's hands shook a little as he threaded one ring onto Charles's finger, the other onto his own. His eyes went distant for a moment, and Charles gasped as the metal warmed, like a tiny golden hug around his finger. He felt an incredulous smile spread across his face.

"Let me try." He focused his mind on the beautiful, amazing man in front of him, how very much he loved him, and wanted him to _know_ that he loved him...

Erik started, then grinned, rubbing his ring. "So you like it?"

"I like it."

Erik took his hand, lacing their fingers together, and kissed it, never breaking eye contact. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes." He tried very hard not to burst into tears, and failed.

Erik, in the midst of losing a similar battle, slid on top of him, peppering him with kisses, mouth and forehead and neck and shoulders, one hand tangling in his hair and the other running down his ribs. Charles grabbed at him, pulling him closer, angling his head into a proper kiss, feeling his entire body light up, eager and joyful and alive—

Oh. _Oh._ His _entire_ body.

Well, not his legs, no. But something considerably more important.

Erik froze, wide-eyed. "Charles," he said, breathless and giddy. _"Charles."_

"Do you _see_ this?"

"What – What should I do? What do you want me to do?" Erik was already tearing Charles's pajama pants down, making it difficult for him to focus enough to answer.

"There's um – there's some hand lotion in the nightstand—"

Erik fumbled for it, clumsy with haste, leaving Charles a moment to stare cross-eyed at something he'd feared he'd never see again. _Welcome back, old friend. Stay awhile, won't you?_

Then Erik was making use of the lotion, slow and firm, and it was all Charles could do not to pass out. He grabbed blindly for Erik's head, pulled down to mash their mouths together, inelegant but _so good_. "Together," he gasped, "together, like we used to—"

"Always was your favorite." Erik maneuvered them back onto their sides, gathered the two of them into one huge hand, wrapping the other around his shoulders to pull him in close.

Charles was dimly aware that he was making highly embarrassing moaning and whimpering sounds, and probably digging his fingers far too hard into Erik's shoulders, but _this was actually happening_ and they were getting _married_ and he wasn't going to die a bitter old involuntary monk, and oh dear he wasn't going to last very long, was he, no – and Erik right on his heels, a rough whisper against his throat _I love you, I love you, I love you—_

And when the world outside their bodies existed again, they both found themselves laughing, breathless and light-headed, melting together to kiss slow and clumsy, arms tight around each other. Charles could not remember ever feeling this happy in his whole life.

So that, of course, was the moment the chime went off, warning them someone had entered the Headmaster's Tower using the Teacher's Emergency Protocol password, followed very shortly by Raven banging on the door.

"Get up, Charles, I know you and Erik's lazy bums are still in that bed, and if you don't get out I'm going to break in there and _drag_ you out!"

Charles could actually watch his own blush spread down his chest, how interesting.

"Get thee _hence,_ Raven!"

"I'm checking on you again in five minutes!"

Erik, who in any less endorphin-drenched moment would have been tearing Raven's head from her shoulders, merely laughed into the crook of Charles's neck and said, "You have responsibilities. Headmaster."

The sly, silky way he said the last word made Charles's blush spread farther. "Just so you know, Erik, I'm not wearing a schoolgirl uniform, not even for you."

"Whoever said _you_ would be wearing it?" 

"Merlin's beard, Erik, I did not need that mental image!"

Erik laughed again, trailing his hands up and down Charles's back and nibbling kisses down his neck.

Charles whimpered. "Can't get distracted… must get up… Moira probably having fits…"

"Heaven forbid we upset Moira." It was said reflexively, without heat or malice. Charles had worried, a bit, about Erik's reaction when he chose Moira, not Erik, as his deputy; Erik had, after all, been teaching less than a term—

"Great Scott, you _considered_ me?" Erik had cried, appalled. "I will thank you to never, ever do that again, Charles. Teaching's bad enough."

'Bad enough' to leave Erik grinning, if confounded, every time one of his students dragged in another Get Well card and accosted him with a hug. It was getting increasing hard for Charles to even _comprehend_ how much he loved this man.

"All right, all right, let's get cleaned up," Erik said now, disentangling himself from the bed and hefting Charles into his arms. "Time to try out that bathtub."

The huge claw-foot bathtub was the only article of Shaw's furniture Charles had kept when he moved his own things into the Headmaster's Tower. As of tonight, Charles thought, they could start moving Erik's things in here as well. Though, judging from the number of only-half-familiar items scattered through the rooms, he suspected that process had already begun without either of them acknowledging it.

"Are you sure we have time for this?"

"What are they going to do, Charles, start your inauguration without you?"

That, Charles decided, when they were settled chest-deep in the warm water, Erik's arms tight around him, was a fair point. They could perhaps take a _few_ more minutes...

So when he realized what an encouraging effect the hot water was having on them both, Charles didn't hesitate to tip his head back and pull Erik down for a kiss, the wedding ring burning hot on his finger.


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EL FIN.

_You are cordially invited to celebrate  
the union of  
Charles Francis Xavier  
and  
Erik Magnus Lehnsherr  
On Tuesday afternoon  
December the 19th  
at 2 o'clock  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

'Getting married' was a matter of registrations, witnesses, waiting periods, and avalanches of Civil Partnership paperwork, all of it completed nearly a week before the actual 'wedding date' they'd set. The wedding ceremony being, then, entirely ornamental, they were free to choose an officiant with no actual authority to officiate anything, and it took less than sixty seconds of pleading blue eyes for Minerva McGonagall to make time for it in her busy post-retirement schedule.

Charles had fretted himself to shreds over decorations until Erik wrested the overflowing Wedding Notebook out of his hands and tossed it to a passing house-elf with the instructions to "make it pretty."

The result was, first, Charles fretting himself to shreds about the house-elves, but at least in a more intermittent fashion than he had been, and second, an explosion of twinkling lights and old-fashioned-Christmas décor that had him in transports.

"Admit it," Erik said, "sometimes I have good ideas."

"Sometimes you have the good idea of letting other people have good ideas for you. That's as far as I'll bend."

Charles, meanwhile, had had the good idea of dressing himself and Erik in Muggle-style white-tie tuxedoes, because he liked them better than dress robes. After seeing what Charles looked like in one, Erik agreed heartily. Their attendants – Raven, Dolly, and Scorpius, and they saw no need to specify which was on which groom's 'side' – ended up dressed in blue, which clashed with the décor, but Charles didn't mind and Erik didn't care enough to notice.

Charles's parents came, somewhat to everyone's shock, and sat wide-eyed and very still in the front row, trying not to touch anything magical.

The realization that his parents would be watching seemed to force Charles into noticing that _everyone would be watching_ , all the teachers, a trainload of students and their parents, several Ministry people, the Malfoys, and the entire Potter-Weasley-Dursley family constellation. It took Raven twenty minutes to talk him down from a panic attack in the bathroom.

After a week of breathlessly watching the weather reports, making Great Hall contingency plans, the day had in fact come up perfect – cold but sunny, with just enough snow swirling in the air to be romantic – and Charles, panic attack apparently forgotten, looked positively serene as he and Erik were escorted down the aisle by their attendants.

Later Erik didn't remember a word of what McGonagall said or even the vows he'd memorized. He only remembered watching Charles's eyes get brighter and brighter, his grip on Erik's gloved hands tighter and tighter, tiny snowflakes catching in his hair just like that day in Hogsmeade thirteen years ago.

Then the sprig of mistletoe Charles had dug up from who-knows-where shouted "Tradition demands a kiss!" and Charles's mother burst into tears as Erik dropped to his knees in front of the float-chair, and kissed him and kissed him until Raven jabbed him in the back and said they were getting embarrassing.

 

At the train station they had to cast a ward disguising Charles's floater as an ordinary Muggle wheelchair. It hurt to see him looking that helpless.

"I have some ideas to show you," Erik said as they waited on the platform. "For a sort of floating brace, something that would let you stand upright, and just glide an inch or two off the floor."

"That sounds fantastic, Erik," Charles said, but most of his attention was on the papers in his hand, the complex schedule of what trains they needed to take when on this tangled honeymoon tour of landmarks of the wizarding world – Godric's Hollow, Little Hangleton, Grimmauld Place. As before, Erik didn't actually care where they went. But he did find the symbolism pleasing.

_I swear I'll get it right this time._

"You're beautiful, you know," he said, running a hand through Charles's hair.

Charles put the papers away, looked up at him with a broad smile. "So I've been told. And so I _expect_ to be told, with great frequency and eloquence."

Erik bent and kissed him, kissed until people were staring, until his back ached and he went to his knees to keep kissing him, until finally Charles pulled away to whisper, "The train's here," and even then it took the reminder, "We have a private car, you know," to convince Erik to pull back and get to his feet.

He stared down at Charles a moment, trying to catch his breath, taking in his gorgeous flushed cheeks and rumpled hair and disheveled clothes, and most importantly his drugged, dreamy smile and the death-grip he had on Erik's hand.

"Love you," he murmured, and Erik leaned forward to press one last kiss to his forehead.

"I love you, Maus."

They boarded the train hand in hand.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Wizard's Education (The Teach your heart Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/389578) by [Lilian_Cho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian_Cho/pseuds/Lilian_Cho)
  * [Cover for "The Better Men" by TurtleTotem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3111302) by [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles)




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